GIFT   OF 
MICHAEL  REESE 


JOHN   INGLESANT 


^  Eomance 


*Aya-!rvTol,  vvv  rUva  Geou  i<rix^v,  koX 
SIXTH       EDITION 


MACMILLAN  AND  CO. 
1882 


r^aiu^i 


-^s-s-^^ 


7Gf 


2Detiicatfon  to  tlje  jffrcft  oEtiftloit 

TO 

RAJFDON  LEVETT,    ESQ. 

My  dear  Levett 

I  dedicate   the   volume  to   rjou  that  I  may  have  an 
opportunity  of  calling  myself  your  friend. 

^      '  -J.  HENRY  SHORTEOUSE, 


Lansdowne,  Edgbastox. 
June  17,  ISSO. 


')  z^-i  I 


fHemoirs   of  tje  iLtfe 

OF 

MR.   JOHN   INGLESANT 

SOMETIME  SERVANT  TO  KING  CHARLES  I. 

WITH 

AN  ACCOUNT   OV  HIS    BIRTH,   EDUCATION,    AND   TRAINING  BT 

THE   JESUITS 

AND 

'  A   PARTICULAR  RELATION   OP  THE   SECRET   SERVICES 

IN   WHICH   HE   WAS   ENGAGED 

ESPECIALLY  IN  CONNECTION  WITH  THE  LATE 
IRISH  REBELLION 

WITH 

SEVERAL  OTHER   REMARKABLE   PASSAGES  AND   OCCURRENCES, 

ALSO 

A  HISTORY  OP  HIS  RELIGIOUS  DOUBTS  AND  EXPERIENCES 

AND   OP   THE   MOLINISTS   OR   QUIETISTS  IN   ITALY 
IN  WHICH   COUNTRY   HE   RESIDED    FOR    MANY   YEARS 

WITH    AN   ACCOUNT   OF 

THE  ELECTION  OF  THE  LATE  POPE 

AND 

MANY  OTHER   EVENTS   AND   AFVMB&t 


PEEFACE  TO  THE  NEW  EDITION 

Emboldened  by  the  kindness  with  which  this  book  has  been 
received,  I  venture  to  risk  a  few  words  of  intioduction  to  this 
new  edition.  The  generous  reception  by  the  Press  of  a  some- 
what hazardous  venture  cannot  be  too  specially  or  too  warmly 
acknowledged  by  me. 

The  book  is  an  attempt  at  a  species  of  literature  which  I 
think  has  not  hitherto  had  justice  done  to  it,  but  which  I 
believe  to  be  capable  of  great  things, — I  mean  Philosophical 
Romance.  There  will  at  once  occur  to  the  reader's  mind 
numerous  works  of  fiction  of  the  highest  talent,  where  philo- 
sophical ideas  have  been  introduced  with  siu-passing  efiect.  By 
Nathaniel  Hawthorne  this  art  was  carried  to  such  perfection 
that  it  is  only  with  difficulty  that  we  perceive  how  absolutely 
every  character,  nay,  every  word  and  line,  is  subordinated  to 
the  philosophical  idea  of  the  book.  There  is  another  kind  of 
philosophical  romance,  however,  which  allows  the  introduction 
of  much  which  cannot  find  place  in  such  a  work  of  pure  art. 
William  Smith's  Thomdale  may  be  taken  as  in  some  sense 
indicating  what  I  mean — books  where  fiction  is  used  expressly 
for  the  purpose  of  introducing  Philosophy.  In  such  books, 
where  philosophy  is  put  first  and  fiction  only  second,  it  is 
evidently  permissible  to  introduce  much,  and  to  introduce  it  in 
a  way,  which  could  not  be  tolerated  in  pure  fiction.  There 
have  been  works  of  the  same  character,  where  a  small  amount 
of  fiction  has  been  introduced,  simply  for  the  purpose  of  relating 
History.  The  reason,  I  conceive,  of  the  comparative  failure  of 
these  books  has  been  that  the  philosophy  has  so  far  outweighed 


Vlll  PREFACE. 

the  romance,  just  as  in  historical  fiction,  as  a  nile,  the  opposite 
error  has  prevailed,  romance  so  far  outweighing  history.  As  in 
the  latter  case  I  believe  that  all  that  is  wanted  to  constitute  an 
historical  romance  of  the  highest  interest  is  the  recovery  of  the 
detailed  incidents  of  everyday  life,  and  the  awakening  of  the 
individual  need  and  striving,  long  since  quiet  in  the  grave ;  so, 
in  books  where  fiction  is  only  used  to  introduce  philosophy,  I 
believe  that  it  is  not  to  be  expected  that  human  hfe  is  to  be 
described  simply  as  such.  The  characters  are,  so  to  speak, 
sublimated :  they  are  only  introduced  for  a  set  purpose,  and 
having  fulfilled  this  purpose — were  it  only  to  speak  a  dozen 
words — they  vanish  from  the  stage.  Nor  is  this  so  unlike  real 
life  as  may  at  first  appear.  Human  life,  as  revealed  to  most  of 
us,  does  not  group  itself  in  stage  eff'ect,  does  not  arrange  itself 
in  elaborate  plot ;  and  brilliant  dialogue  declares  the  glory  of 
the  author  more  frequently  than  it  increases  reality  of  effect. 
If  Fiction,  therefore,  is  allowed  to  select  and  to  condense  from 
life,  surely  Philosophy  may  do  so  too.  If  we  may  view  life 
from  an  artistic,  or  dramatic,  or  picturesque  standpoint,  using 
such  incidents  and  characters  only  as  meet  one  or  other  of  these 
requirements,  surely  we  may  select  incidents  and  characters 
with  a  philosophic  intent.  If  we  fail  in  combining  real  life  and 
philosophy  with  sufficient  vraisemblance,  the  failure  be  upon 
our  own  head :  the  attempt  is  not  on  that  account  declared 
impossible  or  undesirable.  To  compare  such  a  book  with  the 
most  successful  efforts  of  the  greatest  masters  of  modern  fiction, 
where  everything  is  sacrificed  to  sparkling  dialogue,  to  pictur- 
esque effect,  to  startling  plot,  is  to  aim  beside  the  mark.  Every- 
thing which  these  great  masters  have  so  successfully  accom- 
pHshed,  it  was,  fortunately  for  me,  my  business  carefully  to 
avoid. 

I  have  spoken  of  Romance  as  subordinate,  but  I  should  be 
Borry  to  be  so  misunderstood  as  to  be  supposed  to  undervalue 
this  wonderful  exertion  of  the  imaginative  faculty.  In  this 
prosaic  age  the  patient  toilers  among  the  obscure  details  of 
scientific  research  need  no  apology.     They  and  their  followers 


PREFACE.  IX 

pj-een  and  plume  themselves,  amid  general  applause,  on  their 
aristocratic  standpoint,  amid  a  general  plebeian  throng,  thirsting 
for  something  of  human  interest,  and  colour,  and  life.  This 
democratic  rabble  know  by  their  own  experience  that  it  is  only 
when  these  dry  details  are  touched  by  the  enchanter's  wand 
that  tliey  strike  them  with  any  sense  of  reality,  any  likeness  to 
beings  of  their  own  lineage — that  these  dry  bones  assume  any 
appearance  of  life,  any  attribute  of  love,  or  pity,  or  even  of  hate. 
It  will  be  the  same  with  Philosophy.  For  centuries  the  people 
have  utterly  refused  to  recognize  metaphysic  as  anything  but  a 
worthless  jargon.  Let  us  condescend  to  this  simple,  touching 
art  taught  us  by  the  Provencal  singers.  Let  us  try  to  catch 
something  of  the  skill  of  the  great  masters  of  Romance,  of 
Cervantes  and  Le  Sage,  of  Goethe  and  Jean  Paul,  and  let  us 
unite  to  it  the  most  serious  thoughts  and  speculations  which 
have  stirred  mankind.  If  James  Hinton  had  thro'ivn  the 
Mystery  of  Pain  into  the  form  of  story,  do  you  not  thi^ik  that 
for  one  sorrowful  home  which  has  been  lightened  by  his  singular 
genius,  there  would  have  been  himdreds  ? — that  in  place  of  one 
sorrowing  heart  to  which  his  message  has  brought  peace  and 
salvation,  he  might  have  reckoned  thousands  ? 

"But,"  you  say,  "it  is  only  a  Romance." 

True.  It  is  only  human  life  in  the  "  highways  and  hedges," 
and  in  "  the  streets  and  lanes  of  the  city,"  with  the  ceaseless 
throbbing  of  its  quivering  heart ;  it  is  only  daily  life  from  the 
workshop,  from  the  court,  from  the  market,  and  from  the  stage ; 
it  is  only  kindliness  and  neighboiu-hood  and  child-life,  and  the 
fresh  wind  of  heaven,  and  the  waste  of  sea  and  forest,  and  the 
sunbreak  upon  the  stainless  peaks,  and  contempt  of  wrong  and 
pain  and  death,  and  the  passionate  yearning  for  the  face  of  God, 
and  woman's  tears,  and  woman's  self-sacrifice  and  devotion,  and 
woman's  love.  Yes,  it  is  only  a  Romance.  It  is  only  the  ivory 
,  gates  falling  back  at  the  fau-y  touch.  It  is  only  the  leaden  sky 
breaking  for  a  moment  above  the  bowed  and  weary  head,  reveal- 
ing the  fathomless  Infinite  through  the  gloom.  It  is  only  a 
Romance. 


X  PREFACR 

It  is  a  sad  fall,  doubtless,  from  such  heights  as  these — 
heights,  however,  which  none  Avho  remember  a  long  roll  of 
names,  some  of  them  most  happily  still  with  us,  can  think  of  as 
unapproachable — to  the  book  which  lies  before  us.  Neverthe- 
less this  may  be  said  for  it,  that  it  is  an  attempt,  and  an  honest 
one,  to  blend  together  these  three  in  one  philosophy — the 
memory  of  the  dead — the  life  of  thought — the  life  of  each  one 
of  us  alone.  Amid  the  tangled  web  of  a  life's  story  I  have 
endeavom-ed  to  trace  some  distinct  threads — the  conflict  between 
Culture  and  Fanaticism — the  analysis  and  character  of  Sin — 
the  subjective  influence  of  the  Christian  Mythos.  I  have 
ventured  to  depict  the  Cavalier  as  not  invariably  a  drimken 
brute,  and  spiritual  life  and  growth  as  not  exclusively  the 
possession  of  Puritans  and  Ascetics.  I  feel  the  responsibility 
of  introducing  real  historical  characters  and  orders  of  men  into  a 
work  of  this  kind.  My  general  defence  must  be  that  I  have 
written  nothing  which  I  should  not  equally  have  set  down  in 
an  historical  or  a  controversial  work. 


Lansdowne,  Edgbastok, 
Osicber  18.  18^3,. 


(^ 


UNIV.   ,  .ITY^ 


INTRODUCTORY   CHAPTER. 

During  my  second  year  at  Oxford  I  became  atjquamted  with  a 
Roman  Catholic  gentleman,  the  eldest  son  of  a  family  long  resi- 
dent on  the  borders  of  Shropshire  towards  Wales.  My  friend, 
whose  name  was  Fisher,  invited  me  to  his  home,  and  early  in 
my  last,  long  vacation  I  accepted  his  invitation.  The  pictm-esque 
country  was  seen  to  great  advantage  in  the  lovely  summer 
weather.  That  part  of  Shropshii-e  partakes  somewhat  of  the 
moimtain  characteristics  of  Wales,  combined  with  the  more  culti- 
vated beauties  of  English  rural  scenery.  The  ranges  of  hills, 
some  of  which  are  lofty  and  precipitous,  which  intersect  the 
country,  form  wide  and  fertile  valleys  which  are  watered  by 
pleasant  streams.  The  wide  pastiu"es  are  bordered  by  extensive 
plantations  covering  the  more  gradual  ascents,  and  forming  long 
lines  along  the  level  summits.  We  had  some  miles  to  drive 
even  from  the  small  station  on  the  diminutive  branch  line  of 
railway  which  had  slowly  conveyed  us  the  last  dozen  ndles  or 
so  of  our  journey.  At  last,  just  at  the  foot  of  one  of  the  long 
straight  hills,  called  Edges  in  that  country,  we  came  upon  my 
friend's  house,  seen  over  a  fiat  champaign  of  pasture  land,  sur- 
roimded  by  rows  of  lofty  trees,  and  backed  by  fir  and  other 
wood,  reaching  to  the  simimit  of  the  hill  behind  it.  It  was  an 
old  and  very  pictm-esque  house,  jumbled  together  with  the  addi- 
tions of  many  centuries,  from  the  round  tower-like  stau-case  with 
an  extinguisher  turret,  to  a  handsome  addition  of  two  or  three 
years  ago.  Close  by  was  the  mutilated  tower  of  a  r^ined_priory, 
the  chancel  of  which  is  used  as  the  parish  chm-ch.  A  handsome 
stone  wing  of  one  story,  built  in  the  early  Gothic  style,  and  not 
long  completed,  formed  the  entrance  hall  and  dining-room,  with 

S  B 


2  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [intkod. 

a  wide  staircase  at  the  back.  The  hall  was  profusely  hung  with 
old  landscapes  and  family  portraits.  After  a  short  introduction 
to  my  friend's  family,  we  were  soon  assembled  in  the  newly 
finished  dining-room,  with  its  stone  walls  and  magnificent  over- 
hanging Gothic .  fireplace.  The  dinner  party  consisted  of  my 
friend's  father  and  mother,  his  two  sisters,  and  a  Roman  Catholic 
clergyman,  the  family  chaplain  and  priest  of  a  neighbouring 
chapel  which  Mr.  Fisher  had  erected  and  endowed.  The  room 
was  hung  entirely  with  portraits,  several  of  'them  being  ecclesi- 
astics in  different  religious  costumes,  contrasting,  to  my  eyes, 
strangely  with  the  gay  cavaliers  and  the  beautiful  ladies  of  the 
Stuarts'  Court,  and  the  not  less  elaborately  dressed  portraits  of 
the  last  century,  and  with  thosv-of  my  host  and  hostess  in  the. 
costume  of  the  Regency.  I  was  struck  with  the  portrait  which 
happened  to  be  opposite  me,  of  a  young  man  with  a  tonsured 
head,  in  what  appeared  to  me  to  be  a  very  simple  monk's  dress, 
and  I  asked  the  Priest,  a  beautiful  and  mild-looking  old  man, 
whom  it  was  intended  to  represent. 

"A  singular  story  is  attached  to  that  portrait,"  he  said, 
"  which,  it  may  surprise  you  to  learn,  is  not  that  of  a — a  mem- 
ber of  our  communion.  It  is  the  portrait  of  a  young  English- 
man named  Inglesant,  a  servant  of  King  Charles  the  First,  who 
was  very  closely  connected  with  the  Roman  Catholics  of  that 
day,  especially  abroad,  and  was  employed  in  some  secret  negotia- 
tions between  the  King  and  the  Catholic  gentry ;  but  the  chief 
interest  connected  with  his  story  consists  in  some  very  remark- 
able incidents  which  took  place  abroad,  connected  with  the 
murderer  of  his  only  brother — incidents  which  exhibit  this 
young  man's  character  in  a  noble  and  attractive  light.  He  is 
connected  with  Mr.  Fisher's  family  solely  through  the  relations 
.  of  his  brother's  wife,  but,  singularly,  he  is  buried  not  far  from 
here,  across  the  meadows.  In  the  latter  years  of  his  life  he  pur- 
chased an  estate  in  this  neighboiu-hood,  though  it  was  not  his 
native  country,  and  founded  an  almshouse,  or  rather  hospital 
for  lunatics,  in  the  chapel  in  which  his  tomb  is  still  standing. 
That  portrait,  in  which  he  appears  in  the  dress  of  a  novice," 
he  continued,  turning  to  the  one  before  me,  "was  taken  in 
Rome,  when  he  was  residing  at  the  English  college,  where  he 
certainly  was  received,  as  he  apjDcars  to  have  been  generally 
when  al:)road,  into  full  communion  with  us.  As  a  contrast  to 
it,  I  will  show  you  another  in  the  drawing-room,  by  Vandyke, 


CHAP.]  A  ROMANCE.  3 

which,  though  it  really  was  intended  for  his  brother,  yet  may 
equally  well  represent  himself,  as,  at  that  period,  the  two  brothers 
are  said  to  have  been  so  exactly  alike  that  they  could  not  be 
known  apart.  On  his  tomb  at  Monk's  Lydiard,  as  you  may  see 
if  you  incline  to  take  the  trouble  to  walk  so  far — and  it  is  a 
pleasing  walk — he  is  represented  in  his  gown  of  bachelor  of  civil 
law,  a  degree  which  he  received  at  Oxford  during  the  civil  war, 
aud  he  is  there  also  represented  with  tonsured  head.  I  have 
often  thought,"  continued  the  Priest,  musingly,  "  of  arranging  a 
considerable  collection  of  papers  referring  to  this  gentleman's 
story,  which  is  at  present  in  the  library;  or  at  least  of  writing 
out  a  plain  statement  of  the  facts  ;  but  it  would  be  better  done, 
perhaps,  by  a  layman.  I  have  the  authority  of  these  young 
ladies,"  he  continued,  with  a  smile,  turning  to  the  Miss  Fishers, 
"that  the  story  is  a  more  entertaining  and  even  exciting  one. 
than  the  sensational  novels  of  the  day,  of  which,  I  need  not  say, 
I  am  not  a  judge." 

The  young  ladies  confirmed  this  as  far  as  their  knowledge 
went ;  but  they  had  heard  only  fragments  of  the  story,  and  were 
lu-gent  with  the  clergyman  to  set  about  the  task.  He,  however, 
replied  to  their  entreaties  only  by  a  shake  of  the  head ;  and  the 
ladies  soon  after  left  the  room. 

When  we  went  into  the  drawing-room,  I  was  eager  to  see 
the  Vandyke,  and  was  shown  a  magnificent  picture  at  one  end 
of  the  room,  representing  a  singularly  handsome  young  man,  in 
a  gorgeous  satin  court  dress  of  the  reign  of  Charles  the  First, 
whose  long  hair  and  profusion  of  lace  and  ornament  would  prob- 
ably, in  the  work  of  another  artist,  have  produced  an  unpleasing 
impression,  but,  softened  by  the  peculiar  genius  of  Vandyke,  the 
picture  possessed  that  combination  of  splendour  and  pathos  which 
we  are  in  the  habit  of  associating  only  with  his  paintings.  His 
satin  shoes  and  silk  stockings  contrasted  curiously  with  the  gi'ass 
on  which  the  cavalier  stood,  and  the  sylvan  scene  around  him ; 
and  still  more  so  with  his  dogs  and  two  horses,  which  were  held 
at  some  little  distance  by  a  page.  His  face  was  high  and  noble, 
but  on  closely  comparing  it — as  I  did  several  times — with  that 
of  the  Monk  in  the  dining-room,  I  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that 
either  the  likeness  between  the  brothers  was  exaggerated,  or  the 
expression  of  the  survivor  must  have  altered  greatly  in  after 
years;  for  no  difference  in  dress,  great  as  was  the  contrast 
between  the  coarse  serge  of  the  novice  and  the  satin  of  the 


4  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [iNTRon. 

cavalier,  and  between  the  close-cropped  tonsured  head  and  the 
flowing  love  locks,  would  account  for  the  greater  strength  and 
resolve  of  the  portrait  in  the  dining-room,  combined,  strangely, 
as  this  expression  was,  with  a  slightly  wild  and  abstracted  look, 
indicating  either  religious  enthusiasm,  or  perhaps  unsettlement 
of  the  reason  within ;  this  latter  expression  being  totally  want- 
ing in  the  face  of  the  cavalier. 

The  next  day  was  Simday,  and  I  opened  my  window  on  a 
lovely  prospect  of  lawn  and  water,  with  the  fix  woods  sweeping 
up  the  hill-sides  beyond.  Walking  out  in  the  avenue  when  I 
was  dressed,  I  met  the  family  retiurning  from  low  mass  at  the 
Chapel.  I  attended  high  mass  with  them  at  eleven  o'clock. 
The  Chapel  was  picturesquely  built  higher  up  in  the  wood  than 
the  house.  It  had  a  light  and  gracefid  interior,  and  the  cover- 
ings of  the  altar  were  delicate  and  white.  The  exquisite, 
plaintive  music,  the  pale  glimmer  of  the  tapers  in  the  morning 
sunlight,  the  soothing  perfume  of  the  incense,  the  sense  of 
pathetic  pleading  and  of  mysterious  awe,  as  if  of  the  possibility 
of  a  Divine  Presence,  produced  its  effect  on  me,  as  it  does,  I 
imagine,  on  most  educated  Chmxhmen;  but  this  effect  failed 
in  convincing  me  (then,  as  at  other  times)  that  there  was  more 
under  that  gorgeous  ceremonial  than  may  be  found  under  the 
simpler  Anglican  ritual  of  the  Blessed  Sacrament.  After  chiu-ch, 
my  friend,  who  had  some  engagement  with  the  Priest,  accepted 
my  assurance  that  I  was  fond  of  solitary  walks ;  and  I  set  off 
alone  on  my  quest  of  the  tomb  of  John  Inglesaut. 

I  followed  a  footpath  which  led  direct  from  the  ruim^d 
Chiiiieh  near  the  house,  across  tlie  small  park-like  enclosure, 
into  the  flat  meadows  beyond.  The  shadows  of  the  great  trees 
lay  on  the  grass,  the  wild  roses  and  honeysuckle  covered  the 
hedges,  a  thousand  butterflies  fluttered  over  the  fields.  That 
Sunday  stillness  which  is,  possibly,  but  the  ecliQ  of  our  own 
hearts,  but  which  we  fancy  marks  the  day,  especially  in  the 
country,  soothed  the  sense. ,  The  service  in  the  morning  had 
not  supplied  the  sacrament  to  me,"Tat  it  had  been  for  from 
being  without  the  senjejof  ^worship ;  and  the  quiet  country  in 
the  lovely  summer  weather,  in  connection  with  it,  seemed  to 
me  then,  as  often,  the  nearest  foretaste  we  can  gain  of  what 
the  blissful  life,  will  be.  As  I  went" on,  the  distant  murmur  of 
Chui'^h  bells  came  across  the  meadows,  and  following  a  foot* 
path  for  a  couple  of  miles,  I  came  to  the  Hospital  or  Almshouse, 


CHAP.]  A  ROMANCE.  5 

standing  amid  rows  of  elms,  and  having  a  small  village  attached 
to  it,  built  probably  since  its  erection.  The  bells  which  I  had 
heard,  and  which  ceased  a  little  before  I  reached  the  place, 
were  in  a  curious  turret  or  cupola  attached  to  the  Chapel, 
which  formed  one  side  of  the  court  The  buildings  were  of 
red  brick,  faced  with  stone,  in  the  latest  style  of  the  Stuart 
architecture.  The  door  of  the  Chapel  was  wide  open,  and  I 
entered  and  di'opped  into  a  seat  just  as  the  Psalms  began.  The 
room  was  fitted  in  a  style  exactly  corresponding  to  the  outside ; 
a  circular  recess  at  the  upper  end  took  the  place  of  chancel, 
lighted  with  three  windows,  which  were  filled  with  innumerable 
small  panes  of  glass.  The  altar  was  richly  di'aped ;  and  on  it, 
besides  vases  of  flowers,  were  two  massive  candlesticks  of  an 
antique  pattern,  and  an  old  painting,  apj^arently  of  the  Virgin 
and  Child.  The  lower  walls  of  the  chancel  and  of  the  whole 
Chapel  were  panelled,  and  the  whole  had  a  flat  ceiling  of 
panelled  oak,  painted  in  the  centre  with  a  sun  with  rays. 
Partly  in  the  chancel,  and  partly  in  the  Chapel,  the  surpliced 
choir  was  accommodated  in  stalls  or  pews,  and  the  organ  and 
pulpit,  in  elaborate  carved  mahogany,  completed  the  interior. 
There  was  a  good  congregation  :  and  from  this,  and  from  many 
tablets  on  the  walls,  I  gathered  that  the  Chapel  was  used  by 
the  neighbourhood  as  probably  being  nearer  than  the  Parish 
Chiu-ches.  The  soft  afternoon  light  filled  the  place,  gilding  the 
old  brasswork,  and  lighting  up  the  dark  carving  and  the  sombre 
narrow  pews.  The  miLsic  was  of  a  very  high  class,  deliciously 
sung,  and  I  foimd  afterwards  that  there  was  an  endo^vment 
especially  for  the  choir,  and  that  the  chaplains  were  required  to 
be  musical  The  service  bore  comparison  favoiu*ably  with  the 
morning's  mass,  and  a  short  sermon  followed.  "When  all  was 
over,  and  the  people  were  gone  out  into  the  sunshine,  I  began 
to  look  for  the  tomb  I  had  come  to  see,  and  the  chaplain,  hav- 
ing come  out  of  the  vestry,  and  seeming  to  expect  it,  I  went 
up  and  spoke  to  him.  I  told  him  I  had  walked  from  Lydiard 
—my  friend's  house — to  see  the  tomb  of  the  founder,  to  which 
I  had  been  directed  by  the  Roman  Catholic  gentleman  who 
resided  there.  He  was  well  acquainted  with  Father  Ai-nold, 
he  told  me,  and  took  me  at  once  to  the  tomb,  w^hich  was  in  a 
recess  by  the  altar,  screened  from  view  by  the  choir  seats. 
There  he  lay,  sure  enough,  just  as  the  Priest  had  told  me, 
carved  from  head  to  foot  in  alabaster,  in  l.is  gown  of  bachelor 


6  JOHN  inglesant;  [intrOD. 

of  civil  la\r,  and  his  tonsured  head.  The  sculptor  had  under- 
stood his  work ;  the  face  was  life-like,  and  the  likeness  to  the 
portrait  was  quite  perceptible.  The  inscription  was  curious — 
*'sub  marmore  isto  Johannes  Inglesant,  Peccator,  usque  ad 
judicium  latet,  expectans  revelationem  filiorum  Dei." 

I  told  the  Chaplain  what  Father  Arnold  had  told  me  of  this 
man's  story,  and  of  the  materials  that  existed  for  writing  it. 
He  had  heard  of  them  too,  and  even  examined  them. 

"  The  Priest  will  never  write  it,"  he  said. 

"Why  do  not  you?"  I  asked. 

He  laughed.  "  I  am  a  musician,"  he  said,  "  not  an  author. 
You  seem  more  interested  in  it  than  most  peoj^le;  you  had 
better  do  it." 

As  I  came  back  across  the  fields  I  pondered  over  this  advice ; 
and  after  dinner  I  asked  the  Priest  the  story.  He  told  me  the 
outline,  and  the  next  morning  took  me  into  the  hbrary,  and 
showed  me  the  papers. 

The  library  at  Lydiard  is  a  very  curious  room  below  the 
level  of  the  ground,  and  in  the  oldest  part  of  the  house.  It 
adjoins  the  tower  with  the  extinguisher  turret,  by  which  there 
is  communication  with  the  bed  chambers,  and  with  the  leads 
and  garrets  at  the  top  of  the  house.  The  room  was  large,  and 
had  several  closets  besides  a  smaller  room  beyond,  which  had 
no  visible  communication  except  into  the  library,  but  the  Priest 
showed  me  a  secret  doorway  and  staii'case,  which,  he  said, 
descended  into  the  cellars.  Both  these  rooms  and  the  closets 
were  crammed  with  books,  the  accumulation  of  foiu*  hundred 
years — most  of  them  first  editions,  and  clean  as  when  they  came 
from  the  binder,  but  browned  and  mellowed  with  age.  Early 
works  of  the  German  press,  a  Caxton,  the  scarce  literature  of 
the  sixteenth  century — all  the  books  which  had  once  been 
fashionable — Cornelius  Agrippa,  and  Cardan,  two  or  three 
•  editions  of  the  Euphues,  'folios  of  Shakespeare  and  the  drama- 
tists, and  choice  editions  of  the  literature  of  the  seventeenth 
and  eighteenth  centuries,  down  to  our  own  day.  Besides  this 
general  literature,  there  was  a  large  collection  of  Roman  Catholic 
works  and  pamphlets,  many  privately  printed  at  home  or 
published  abroad;  biographies  of  Seminary  Priests  who  had 
suffered  death  in  England,  reports  of  trials,  private  instructions, 
and  even  volumes  of  private  letters,  for  Lydiard  had  always 
been  a  secure  hiding-place  for  the  hunted  priests,  and  more  than 


CHAP.]  A  ROMANCE.  7 

one  had  died  there,  leaving  all  his  papers  in  the  library.  No 
fitter  place  could  exist  in  which  to  attempt  the  task  I  had 
already  determined  to  undertake,  and  I  obtained  leave  of  the 
Priest,  promising  to  make  nothing  public  without  his  approval. 
I  had  the  whole  vacation  before  me ;  too  idle  and  desultory  to 
read  for  honours,  I  had  always  been  fond  of  literature  and  the 
classics,  and  was  safe  for  my  degree,  and  I  gave  myself  up  unre- 
servedly to  my  task.  I  have  endeavoured,  as  Father  Arnold 
said,  to  tell  a  plain  story.  I  have  no  pretensions  to  dramatic 
talent,  and  I  deprecate  the  reader's  criticism.  If  I  have  caught 
anything  of  the  religious  and  social  tone  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  I  am  more  tlian  content. 

GEOFFREY  MONK,  M.A. 


JOHN  INGLESANT  ;  £oHAP.  I. 


CHAPTER  I. 

When  Cromwell,  Earl  of  Essex,  was  in  the  zenith  of  his  power, 

and  was  engaged  in  completing  the  suppression  of  the  smaller 
monasteries  before  commencing  on  the  greater, — he  had  in  his 
service  a  young  gentleman  named  Eichard  Inglesant,  the  son  of 
a  knight,  and  descended  from  a  knightly  family,  originally  of 
Flanders,  who  had  come  into  England  with  the  Princess  of 
Hainault.  This  young  man  was  of  an  attractive  person,  a 
scholar,  active  and  useful  in  many  ways,  and  therefore  a  favourite 
with  his  master.  One  evening  in  the  end  of  June  1537,  he 
was  sent  for  by  Cromwell  into  the  great  gallery  of  his  magnifi- 
cent house  in  Throgmorton  Street,  where  he  foimd  his  master 
walking  up  and  down  in  thought. 

"  You  must  be  ready  to  depart  at  once,  Richard,"  he  said, 
"into  Wiltshire.  I  have  in  this  commission  appointed  you 
Visitor  of  the  Priory  of  Westacre,  six  miles  south  of  JMalmsbury, 
on  the  way  into  Somerset,  which  they  call  the  Priory  in  the 
Wood.  The  King's  Grace  is  resolved  on  the  suppression  of  this 
house,  as  a  priory ;  but  note  very  carefully  what  I  tell  you ; — 
it  will  be  for  your  guidance.  Great  interest  has  been  made  to 
his  Grace's  Highness  on  behalf  of  this  house,  both  by  many  of 
the  gentry  dwelHug  thereabout,  and  also  by  the  common  people 
by  the  mouth  of  the  Mayor  of  Malmsbury.  They  say  the 
house  is  without  any  slander  or  evil  fame  ',  that  it  stands  in  a 
waste  ground,  very  soUtary,  keeping  such  hospitality,  that 
except  with  singular  good  management- it  could  not  be  main- 
tained though  it  had  half  as  much  land  again  as  it  has,  such  a 
number  of  the  poor  inhabitants  nigh  thereunto  are  daily  relieved. 
The  Prior  is  a  right  honest  man,  and  well  beloved  of  all  the 
inhabitants  therewith  adjoining,  having  with  him,  in  the  house, 
eight  rehgious  persons,  being  priests  of  right  good  conversation, 
and  living  religiously.     They  spend  their  time  in  writing  books 


CHAP.  L]  A  ROMANCE.  9 

with  a  very  fair  hand,  in  making  garments  for  the  poor  people, 
in  printing  or  graving.  Now  the  prayer  of  these  people  is  that 
the  King's  Highness  shall  translate  this  priory  into  a  college, 
and  so  continue  as  many  of  the  priests  as  the  lands  will  maintain 
for  the  benefit  of  the  neighboiurs ;  and  the  King  is  much  inclined 
10  do  this.  JS'ow,  on  the  other  hand,  this  house  has  a  proper 
lodging,  where  the  Prior  lay,  with  a  fair  garden  and  an  orchard, 
very  meet  to  be  bestowed  on  some  friend  of  mine,  and  some 
faithful  servant  of  the  King's  Grace.  There  is  no  small  number 
of  acres  ready  sown  with  wheat,  the  tilth  ordered  for  barley ; 
the  house  and  grounds  are  well  furnished  with  plate,  stuff,  corn, 
cattle  ;  the  woods  well  saved,  and  the  hedgerows  full  of  timber, 
as  though  the  Prior  had  looked  for  no  alteration  of  his  house. 
I  had  set  mine  hand  on  this  house  for  a  friend  of  mine,  but  the 
King's  Grace  is  determined  upon  this : — if  the  Prior  will  sm-- 
render  the  house  in  a  discreet  and  frank  manner,  and  will  more- 
over, on  Simday  next,  which  is  the  Feast  of  the  most  Precious 
Blood,  after  mass,  to  which  all  the  neighbouring  people  shall 
have  been  called,  in  his  sermon,  make  mention  of  the  Kind's 
title  of  Supreme  Head,  and  submit  himself  wholly,  in  all  matters 
spiritual,  to  the  King's  Grace,  imder  Christ,  the  house  shall  be 
continued  as  a  college,  and  no  man  therein  disturbed,  and  not 
so  much  as  an  ounce  of  plate  taken,  that  they  may  pray  God 
Almighty  to  preserve  the  King's  Grace  with  His  blessed  pleasm-e. 
Now  I  send  you  on  this  mission  because,  if  things  go  as  I  think 
they  may,  I  mean  this  house  for  you;  and  there  is  so  much 
clamom-  about  this  business  that  I  will  have  no  more  hands  in 
it  than  I  can  help.  Take  two  or  three  of  the  men  with  you 
whom  you  can  trust ;  but  see  you  fail  not  in  one  jot  in  the 
course  you  take  with  the  Prior,  for  shoidd  it  come  to  the  Kings 
ears  that  you  had  deceived  the  Prior — and  it  siu-ely  would  so 
come  to  his  Grace — your  head  woidd  not  be  your  own  for  an 
hour,  and  I  should  doubt,  even,  of  my  own  favOiu*  with  the 
King." 

Richard  Inglesant  was  on  horseback  before  daylight  the 
next  morning ;  and  riding  by  easy  stages,  arrived  at  Malmsbury 
of  inc-t.  qyid  sl^pt  a  night  there  making  inqniries  abnnt  the  way 
fc«i.ie,     At.  Mfdm^bury,  aiu]   at  ;:']  thr-.  v;^.'-/^-  v/lnr-:^  Jie 

'11 


HIS  I 


10  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [cHAP.  l. 

did  not  go  forward  to  Westacre  till  noonday.  In  the  middle  of 
the  summer  afternoon  he  crossed  the  brow  of  the  hilly  common, 
and  saw  the  roofs  of  the  Priory  beneath  him  surrounded  by  its 
woods.  The  country  all  about  lay  peaceful  in  the  soft,  mellow 
sunlight ;  wide  slopes  of  wood,  intermixed  with  shining  water, 
and  the  quiet  russet  downs  stretching  beyond.  Richard  had 
sent  on  a  man  the  day  before  to  warn  the  Prior,  who  had  been 
expecting  his  coming  all  day.  The  house  stood  with  a  little 
w^alled  court  in  front  of  it,  and  a  gate-house ;  and  consisted  of 
tliree  buildings — a  chapel,  a  large  hall,  and  another  building  con 
taining  the  Prior's  parlour  and  other  rooms  on  the  ground  floor, 
^nd  a  long  gallery  or  dormitory  above,  out  of  which  opened  other 
chambers  ;  the  kitchens  and  stables  were  near  the  latter  build- 
ing, on  the  right  side  of  the  court.  The  Prior  received  Ingle- 
sant  with  deference,  and  took  him  over  the  house  and  gardens, 
pointing  out  the  well-stocked  fish-ponds  and  other  conveniences, 
with  no  apparent  wish  of  concealing  anything.  Richard  was 
astonished  at  the  number  of  books,  not  only  in  the  book-room, 
but  also  in  the  Prior's  own  chamber;  these  latter  the  Prior' 
seemed  anxious  he  shoidd  not  examine.  As  far  as  Richard  coidd 
see,  they  were,  many  of  them,  chemical  and  magical  books.  He 
supped  with  the  Prior  in  hall,  with  the  rest  of  the  household, 
and  retired  with  him  to  the  parlour  afterwards,  where  cakes  and 
spiced  wine  were  served  to  them,  and  they  remained  long  to- 
gether. Inglesant  delivered  his  commission  fairly  to  his  host, 
dwelling,  again  and  again,  on  every  particular,  while  the  Prior  sat 
silent  or  made  but  short  or  inconclusive  replies.  At  last  Ingle- 
sant betook  himself  to  rest  in  the  guest-chamber,  a  room  hung 
with  arras,  opening  from  the  gallery  where  the  monks  slept, 
towards  the  west ;  one  of  his  servants  slept  also  in  the  dormi- 
tory near  his  door.  The  Prior's  care  had  ordered  a  fire  of  wood 
on  the  gi'cat  hearth  that  lighted  up  the  carved  bed  and  the 
Iiunting  scene  upon  the  walls.  He  lay  long  and  could  not  sleep. 
All  night  long,  at  intervals,  came  the  sound  of  chanting  along 
the  great  hall  and  up  the  stairs  into  the  dormitory,  as  the 
monks  sung  the  service  of  matins,  lauds,  and  prime.  His  mind 
was  ill  at  ease.  A  scholar,  and  brought  up  from  boyhood  at 
the  Court,  he  had  little  sympathy  with  the  new  doctrines,  and 
held  the  simple  and  illiterate  popple  who  mostly  followed  them 
in  small  esteem.  He  was  strongly  influenced  by  that  mysteri- 
ous awe  which  tlie  Romish  system  inspires  in  the  most  careless, 


CHAP.  I.]  A  ROMANCE.  11 

9ven  when  it  is  not  strong  enough  to  influence  their  lives.  The 
mission  he  had  undertaken,  and  the  probable  destruction  of  this 
religious  house,  and  the  expulsion  of  its  inmates  for  his  benefit, 
frightened  him,  and  threatened  him  with  unknown  penalties  and 
terrors  hereafter  which  he  dared  not  face.  He  lay  listlessly  on 
his  bed  listening  to  the  summer  wind,  and  when  at  last  he  fell 
asleep,  it  was  but  a  light  fitful  slumber,  out  of  which  he  woke 
ever  and  anon  to  hear  the  distant  chanting  of  the  monks,  and 
see  by  the  flickering  fire-light  the  great  hounds  coursing  each 
other  over  the  walls  of  his  room. 

In  the  morning  he  heard  mass  in  the  Chapel,  after  which  the 
Prior  sent  a  message  to  explain  his  absence,  informing  him  that 
he  was  gone  to  Malmsbiu-y  to  consult  with  his  friends  there  how 
he  might  best  serve  the  King's  Grace.  All  that  morning  Richard 
Inglesant  sat  in  the  hall  receiving  the  evidence  of  all  who  came 
before  him  (of  whom  there  was  no  lack) — of  the  neighbours, 
gentry  and  country  people.  He  evidently  examined  them  with 
great  care  and  acuteness,  noting  down  every  answer  in  a  fail 
clerkly  hand,  exactly  as  he  received  it,  neither  extenuating  any- 
thing nor  adding  the  least  word.  He  also  in  the  same  report 
kept  an  exact  account  of  how  he  passed  his  time  while  at  West- 
acre.  There  appears — as  Cromwell  had  said — not  to  have  been 
the  least  breath  of  scandal  against  the  Prior  or  any  of  the  priests 
in  the  house.  The  only  report  at  all  injiu-ious  to  the  character 
of  the  Prior  seems  to  have  been  an  opinion — oftentimes  hinted 
at  by  the  witnesses — that  he  was  addicted  to  the  study  of  chem- 
istry and  magic ;  that,  besides  his  occult  books,  he  had  in  his 
closet  in  his  chamber  a  complete  chemical  apparatus  with  which 
he  practised  alchemy,  and  was  even  said  to  be  in  possession  of 
the  Elixir  of  Life.  These  reports  Inglesant  does  not  appear  to 
have  paid  much  attention  to,  probably  regarding  them  as  not 
necessarily  coming  within  the  limits  of  his  commission;  and, 
indeed,  there  is  evidence  of  his  having  acted  with  the  most 
exact  feu'ness  throughout  the  investigation,  more  than  once  put- 
ting questions  to  the  witness,  evidently  for  the  piu^se  of  correct- 
ing misapprehensions  which  told  against  the  Prior.  After  dinner 
he  rode  out  to  the  downs  to  a  gentleman  who  had  coiu-teously 
sent  him  Avord  that  he  was  coursing  with  greyhounds  :  he,  how- 
ever, was  not  absent  from  the  Priory  long,  declining  the  gentle- 
man's invitation  to  supper.  After  he  had  supped  he  spent  the 
rest  of  the  evening  in  his  own  chamber,  reading  what  he  calla 


12  JOHN  INGLES  ANT;  [onAP.  i. 

"Ovidii  Nasonis  metamorphoseos  libri  moralizati/'  an  edition 
of  which,  printed  at  Leipsic  in  1510,  he  had  found  in  the  Prior's 
room. 

The  next  forenoon  lie  spent  in  the  same  manner  as  the  last, 
the  people  flocking  in  voluntarily  to  give  their  evidence  in  favour 
of  the  house.  A  little  after  noon  the  Prior  came  back,  travel- 
ling on  foot  and  alone.  As  he  came  along  he  was  thinking  of 
the  words  of  the  gospel  which  promise  gi-eat  things  to  him  who 
gives  up  houses  and  land  for  the  Lord's  sake. 

"When  he  reached  the  brow  of  the  hiU  from  which  he  could 
see  the  three  red-tiled  roofs  of  the  Priory  peeping  out  from 
among  the  trees,  with  the  gardens  and  the  green  meadows,  and 
the  cattle  seen  here  and  there,  he  stood  long  to  gaze.  The  air  was 
soft  and  yet  fresh,  and  the  woods  stretching  up  the  rising-grounds 
about  the  Priory  were  wavering  and  shimmering  all  over  with 
their  myriad  rustling  leaves,  instinct  with  life  and  beauty  both 
to  the  ear  and  eye ;  a  perpetual  change  from  light  to  shadow, 
from  the  flight  of  the  fleecy  clouds,  would  have  made  the  land- 
scape dazzling  but  for  the  green  on  which  the  eye  dwelt  with  a 
sense  of  rest  to  the  wearied  and  excited  brain.  A  gentle  sound 
and  murmur,  as  of  happy  and  contented  beings,  made  itself  softly 
felt  rather  than  heard,  through  the  noontide  air.  "  Omnes  qui 
reUnquuftt  patrem,  domas,  uxorem,"  said  the  Prior;  but  his 
eyes  were  so  dim  that  he  stumbled  as  he  went  on  down  the  hill. 

Eichard  Ingiesant  and  he  were  some  time  alone  together 
that  evening.  Whether  the  Prior  prepared  him  at  all  for  the 
course  he  had  determined  to  pursue,  does  not  appear,  but  cer- 
tainly he  did  not,  to  any  great  extent. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  being  the  "  Feast  of  the  most 
Precious  Blood  " — a  Sunday  long  remembered  in  that  country 
side.  The  people,  for  a  score  of  miles  round,  thronged  to  hear 
the  Prior's  sermon.  The  JMayor  of  Malmsbiu-y  was  there ;  but 
the  clergy  of  the  Abbey,  it  was  noticed,  were  not  present.  The 
little  Chapel  would  not  hold  a  tithe  of  the  people — indeed  few 
more  than  the  gentry  and  their  ladies,  who  came  in  great 
numbei^s,  were  allowed  admission.  Richard  Ingiesant  and  the 
Sherift'  had  Fald-stools  in  front  of  the  altar,  where  they  re- 
mained kneeling  the  whole  of  mass.  The  doors  and  windows 
of  the  Chapel  were  opened,  that  the  people  outside  might  assist 
at  the  celebration.  They  sto  )d  as  thick  as  they  could  be  packed 
in  the  little  coui-tyai^d  and  up  the  sloping  fields  around  the  Priory, 


CHAP.  I.]  A  ROIVIANCE.  13 

listening  in  silence  to  the  music  of  the  mass ;  and  at  the  sound 
of  the  bell  the  whole  multitude  fell  on  their  knees  as  one  man, 
remaining  so  for  several  minutes.  Mass  being  over,  the  Prior 
came  in  procession  from  the  Chapel  to  where  a  small  wooden 
pulpit  had  been  set  up  just  outside  the  gate-house,  in  front  of 
which  seats  were  placed  for  the  Sherift*  and  Inglesant,  and  the 
chief  gentry.  The  silence  was  greater  than  ever,  when  the 
Prior,  who  had  changed  the  gorgeous  vestments  in  which  he  had 
celebrated  mass,  and  appeared  only  as  a  simple  monk,  ascended 
the  pulpit  and  began  to  preach.  The  Piior  was  a  great  preacher; 
a  small  and  quiet  man  enough  to  look  at,  when  he  entered  the 
pulpit  he  was  transfigured.  His  form  grew  dignified,  his  face 
lighted  up  with  enthusiasm,  and  his  voice,  even  in  the  open  air, 
was  full  and  clear,  and  possessed  that  magical  proi^erty  of  reach- 
ing the  hearts  of  all  who  heard  him,  now  melted  into  tenderness, 
and  now  raised  to  firm  resolve.  He  began  with  the  text  that 
had  haunted  his  memory  the  day  before,  and  the  fii'st  part  of 
his  sermon  was  simply  an  earnest  and  eloquent  exhortation  to 
follow  Christ  in  preference  to  anything  beside  on  earth.  Then, 
warming  in  his  subject,  he  answered  the  question  (speaking  that 
magnificent  English  tongue  that  even  now  rings  in  the  pages  of 
Foxe),  Where  was  Christ  1  and  urging  the  people  to  follow  Him 
as  He  manifested  Himself  in  the  Church,  and  especially  in  the 
sacrament  of  the  altar.  Then  suddenly  throwing  aside  all  re- 
serve, and  with  a  rapidity  of  utterance  and  a  torrent  of  elo- 
quence that  carried  his  hearers  with  him,  he  rushed  into  the 
question  of  the  day,  brought  face  to  face  the  opposing  powers 
of  the  State  and  Clirist,  hurled  defiance  at  the  former,  and 
while  not  absolutely  naming  the  King  or  his  Council,  denounced 
his  policy  in  the  plainest  words.  .  Then,  amid  the  swaying  of  the 
excited  crowd,  and  a  half-stifled  cry  and  murmur,  he  suddenly- 
dropped  his  voice,  pronounced  the  formal  benediction,  and  shrank 
back,  to  all  appearance,  into  the  quiet,  timid  monk. 

It  is  needless  to  describe  the  excitement  and  astonishment 
of  the  crowd.  The  Prior  and  his  procession  with  difficulty 
returned  to  the  Chapel  through  the  press.  The  Sheriff  and 
Richard  Inglesant,  who  with  the  other  leading  gentry  had 
aff"ected  perfect  unconsciousness  that  anything  unusual  was  taking 
place,  entered  the  hall  of  the  Priory,  and  the  Prior  had  a  mess- 
age sent  into  the  sacristy  that  the  King's  comniissioner  desired 
to  see  him  immediately  in  the  parlour. 


14  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [ciiAP.  i. 

When  the  Pri:r  entered,  Inglesant  was  standing  upon  the 
hearth  ;  he  was  p?,le,  and  his  manner  was  excited  and  even  fierce. 

"  You  are  a  bold  man,  master  Prior,"  he  said  ahnost  before 
the  other  was  in  the  room;  "do  you  know  that  you  have  this' 
day  banished  yourself  and  all  your  fellowship  into  the  world 
without  shelter  and  without  help  ?  Nay,  I  know  not  but  the 
King's  Grace  may  have  you  up  to  answer  for  this  day  with  your 
life  !     Do  you  know  this  V 

The  Prior  looked  him  steadily  in  the  face,  but  he  was  deadly 
pale,  and  his  manner  was  humble  and  cowed. 

"Yes,  I  know  it,"  he  said. 

"Well,"  continued  the  other  still  more  excitedly,  "I  call 
you  to  witness,  master  Prior,  rs  I  shall  before  the  throne  of  God 
Almighty,  that  I  have  neither  hand  nor  part  in  this  day's  work ; 
that  you  have  brought  this  e\dl  upon  yourself  by  your  own  deed 
and  choice,  by  no  want  of  warning  and  no  suddenness  on  my 
part,  but  by  your  own  madness  alone." 

"  It  is  very  true,"  said  the  Prior. 

"I  must  to  horse,"  said  Inglesant,  scarcely  heeding  him, 
"and  ride  post  to  my  lord.  It  is  as  much  as  my  head  is  worth 
should  any  rumom-  of  this  day's  business  reach  the  King's  Grace 
by  any  other  tongue  than  mine.  You  will  stay  here  under  the 
Sheriffs  guard ;  but  I  fear  you  will  too  soon  hear  what  a  tragedy 
this  day's  play  has  been  for  you !  God  have  you  in  His  keep- 
ing. Prior !  for  you  have  put  yoiu-self  out  of  all  hope  of  mercy 
from  the  King's  Grace." 

He  might  have  said  more,  but  an  alarming  noise  made  him 
hasten  into  the  hall.  The  most  lawless  and  poorest  of  the 
people — of  whom  numbers  had  mingled  in  the  crowd  in  the 
hope  of  spoil,  taking  for  granted  that  the  house  was  dissolved 
— had  made  an  attack  upon  the  Chapel  and  the  Prior's  lodging, 
and  it  was  some  time  before  the  Sheriif,  assisted  by  Inglesant 
and  the  other  gentlemen  and  their  servants,  all  of  whom  were 
armed,  could  restore  order.  When  this  was  done,  and  thr 
peaceable  people  and  women  reassured,  Inglesant's  horses  were 
brought  out,  and  he  mounted  and  rode  oft'  through  the  dispers- 
ing but  still  excited  and  lawless  crowds,  leaving  the  Priory  to 
a  strong  guard  of  the  Sheriffs  men.  As  he  rode  up  the  hill 
— the  people  shrinking  back  to  let  him  pass — he  muttered, 
bitterly : 

*'  A  fine  piece  of  work  we  have  set  our  hands  to,  with  all 


CHAP.  I.]  A.  ROMANCE.  15 

the  rascal  people  of  tlie  country  to  aid.  And  why  should  not 
the  Poverty  get  some  of  the  droppings,  when  the  Gentry  cuts 
the  piu-se  1" 

Travelling  at  a  very  different  pace  from  that  at  which  he 
had  ridden  from  London,  he  reached  the  city  the  next  night, 
and  went  at  once  to  the  Lord  Cromwell,  who,  the  next  morning, 
took  him  to  the  King,  to  whom  he  gave  a  full  account  'of  what 
had  occurred.  Henry — who  appears  to  have  been  induced  to 
form  his  previous  intention  by  the  influence  of  a  gentleman  at 
Com-t  who  probably  had  his  private  expectations  with  regard  to 
the  futm-e  possession  of  the  Priory — seems  to  have  really  cared 
little  about  the  matter.  He  was,  however,  highly  incensed  at 
the  Prior's  sermon,  and  made  no  difficulty  of  immediately  grant- 
ing the  Priory  to  Richard  Inglesant.  A  pursuivant  was  sent 
down  to  bring  the  Prior  up  to  London  to  be  examined  before 
the  Council,  but  it  does  not  appear  that  he  ever  was  examined. 
Probably  Inglesant  exerted  his  influence  with  Cromwell  in  his 
behalf,  for  Cromwell  examined  him  himself,  and  appears  to  have 
informed  the  King  that  he  was  harmless  and  mad.  At  any  rate, 
he  was  set  at  liberty ;  and  his  troubles  appear  to  have  actually 
affected  his  reason,  for  he  is  said  to  have  returned  to  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Malmsbury,  and  to  have  wandered  about  the  Priory 
at  nights.  The  other  inmates  of  the  Priory  had  been  dispersed, 
and  the  house  taken  possession  of  by  Inglesant's  servants ;  but 
he  himself  seems  to  have  taken  but  little  pleasure  in  his  new 
possession,  for  it  was  more  than  a  year  before  he  visited  it ;  and 
when  he  did  so,  events  occurred  which  increased  his  dislike  to 
the  place. 

It  was  late  in  October  when  his  visit  took  place,  and  the 
weather  was  mid  and  stormy.  He  slept  in  the  Prior's  guest- 
chamber,  which  was  in  the  same  state  as  whwi  he  had  occupied 
it  before.  The  wind  moaned  in  the  trees,  and  swept  over  the 
roofs  and  among  the  chimneys  of  the  old  house.  In  the  early 
part  of  the  night  he  had  a  terrible  dream,  or  what  was  rathei 
partly  a  dream  and  partly  a  feverish  sense  of  the  objects  around 
him.  He  thought  he  was  lying  in  the  bed  in  the  room  where 
he  really  was,  and  could  not  sleep ;  a  fierce  contention  of  the 
elements  and  of  some  powers  more  fearftd  than  the  elements 
seemed  going  on  outside.  The  room  became  hatefid  to  him, 
with  its  dark,  hearse-like  bed  and  the  strange  figiues  on  the 
tapestry,  which  seemed  to  his  bewildered  fancy  to  course  each 


1 6  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [cHAP.  1 

other  over  the  walls  with  a  rapidity  and  a  fantastic  motion 
which  made  his  senses  reel.  He  thought  that,  miable  to  remain 
where  he  was,  he  rose  and  went  out  into  the  old  dormitor}^,  now 
silent  and  deserted,  from  one  end  of  which  he  could  look  into 
the  courtyard,  while  from  the  other  he  could  see  a  dark  mass  of 
woodland,  and  a  Imid  distant  sky.  On  this  side  all  was  quiet ; 
but  the  courtyard  seemed  astir.  The  moon  shone  with  the 
brightness  of  day  on  the  mouldering,  ivy-grown  walls,  and  on 
the  round  pebble  stones  between  which  the  long  grass  was 
growing  all  over  the  coiu-t.  The  wind  swept  fiercely  across  it, 
and  splashes  of  rain,  every  now  and  then,  made  streaks  in  the 
Inoonlight  like  fire ;  strange  voices  cried  to  him  in  an  unknown 
language,  and  undistinguished  forms  seemed  passing  to  and  fro. 
The  Chapel  was  all  alight,  and  low  and  mournfid  music  pro- 
ceeded from  it,  as  for  the  dead.  Fascinated  with  terror,  he 
left  the  gallery  and  descended  into  the  court.  An  irresistible 
impulse  led  him  to  the  Chapel,  which  was  open,  and  he  went 
in.  As  he  did  so,  voices  and  strange  forms  seemed  to  rush  for- 
ward to  enter  with  him,  and  an  overwhelming  horror  took  pos- 
session of  him.  Inside,  the  Chapel  was  hung  with  black; 
cowled  forms  filled  the  stalls,  and  chanted,  with  hollow,  shadowy 
voices,  a  diige  for  the  dei^arted.  A  hooded  and  black  form 
stood  before  the  altar,  celebrating  the  mass.  The  altar  was 
alight  with  tapers,  and  torches  were  borne  by  sable  attendants 
on  either  side  of  the  choir.  The  ghostly  forms  that  entered 
with  him  now  thronged  about  him  in  the  form*and  habit  of 
living  men.  Voices  called  from  without,  and  were  answered 
from  within  the  Chapel ;  rushing  sounds  filled  the  air  as  though 
the  trees  were  being  torn  up,  and  the  Chapel  and  house  rocked. 
There  was  no  coffin  nor  pall,  nor  any  sign  of  mourning ;  and  it 
seemed  to  Inglesant  that  he  was  present  at  the  celebration  of 
some  obyte,  or  anniversary  of  the  death  of  one  long  departed, 
over  whom  a  wild  and  ghostly  lamentation  was  made  by  beings 
no  longer  of  the  earth.  An  inexpressible  dread  and  sorrow  lay 
wpon  him — an  overwhelming  dread,  as  if  the  final  Reckoning 
were  near  at  hand,  and  all  hope  taken  away — sorrow,  as  tliough 
all  whom  he  had  ever  loved  and  known  lay  before  him  in  death, 
with  the  solemn  dirge  and  placebo  said  over  them  by  the  ghostly 
choir.  The  strain  was  too  intense  and  painful  to  be  borne,  and 
with  a  cry,  he  awoke. 

Utterly  incapable  of  remaining  where  he  was,  he  dressed, 


CHAP.  I.]  A  ROMANCE.  17 

and  went  out  into  the  gallery^  and  down  into  the  courtyard. 
The  court  was  lighted  by  the  moonhght  as  brightly  as  in  his 
dream  for  one  moment,  and  then  was  totally  dark  from  the 
passing  clouds  flitting  over  the  moon.  All  was  calm  and  still. 
A  smaU  door  in  the  corner  of  the  court  near  the  Chapel  was 
open,  and,  surprised  at  this,  Inglesant  crossed  over  and  passed 
through  it.  It  led  into  the  graveyard  of  the  Priory  outside  the 
Chapel,  where  the  monks  and  some  of  the  country  people  had 
been  used  to  biuy  their  dead.  It  was  walled  round,  but  the 
wall  at  the  farther  side  was  old  and  ruinous,  and  had  partly 
fallen  down.  As  Inglesant  reached  the  postern  door,  the  moon 
shone  out  brightly,  and  he  saw,  between  himself  and  the  ruined 
wall,  a  wasted  and  cowled  figure  slowly  traversing  the  rows  of 
graves.  For  a  moment  he  felt  a  terror  equal  to  that  of  his 
dream,  but  the  next  the  thought  of  the  Prior  flashed  upon  his 
mind,  and  he  crossed  the  graveyard  and  followed  silently  in  the 
track  of  the  figure.  The  ghostly  form  reached  the  opposite 
wall,  and  commenced,  with  some  substance  that  shone  like  fire, 
to  draw  magic  figures  upon  the  stones  of  one  of  its  most  perfect 
parts.  Placing  himself  in  a  position  evidently  indicated  by 
these  geometrical  figures,  he  carefully  observed  the  precise  spot 
where  his  shadow  was  projected  on  the  wall  before  him  by  the 
moonlight,  and  going  to  this  spot,  he  carefully  loosened  and 
removed  a  stone.  By  this  time  Inglesant  was  close  upon  him, 
and  saw  him  take  from  within  the  wall  an  antique  glass  or 
vial,  of  a  singular  and  occult  shape.  As  he  raised  it,  some 
slight  motion  the  other  made  caused  him  to  tiu-n  roimd,  and  at 
the  sight  of  Inglesant  he  dropped  the  magic  glass  upon  the 
stone  he  had  removed,  and  shattered  it  to  pieces.  When  he 
saw  what  had  happened,  the  strange  and  weird  creatiu-e  threw 
his  arms  above  his  head,  and  with  a  piercing  cry  that  rang 
again  and  again  through  the  chill  night  air,  fell  backwards 
senseless,  and  lay  in  the  pale  moonlight  white  and  still  among 
the  gTaves.  Inglesant  removed  him  into  the  house,  and  he  was 
restored  to  sense,  but  scarcely  to  reason.  He  lived  for  more 
than  five  *years,  never  leaving  the  Priory,  where  Inglesant 
directed  that  all  his  wants  should  be  attended  to,  wandering 
about  the  gardens,  and  sometimes  poring  over  his  old  books, 
which  still  remained  upon  his  shelves.  Inglesant  never  saw 
him  again ;  but  when  he  died  the  old  man  sent  him  his  bless- 
ing, and  was  buried  before  the  altar  in  the  Chapel,  where  all 

c 


18  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [chap.  II 

the  Priors  of  tlie  house  had  lairw  before  him  ;  he  on  whom  the 
evil  days,  wliich  they  perhaps  had  merited  but  had  escaped, 
had  fallen,  and  had  crushed. 


CHAPTER  11. 

RiCHAED  Inglesant  never,  till  the  last  few  years  of  his  life, 
lived  at  Westacre,  and  visited  it  very  seldom.  He  was  a 
successfid  courtier  ;  and  at  Cromwell's  fall  became  a  servant  of 
the  King.  He  married,  and  lived  entirely  at  the  Court.  He 
was  all  his  life  a  Catholic  at  heart,  but  conformed  outwardly  to 
the  religion  of  the  hour.  He  had  one  son,  named  after  him, 
who  was  educated  at  Oxford,  and  intended  for  the  bar,  but  his 
father  left  him  so  considerable  a  fortune  that  he  was  independ- 
ent of  any  profession.  That  Richard  Ingiesant  left  no  more 
than  he  did,  shows  that  he  adhered  through  life  to  the  line  of 
conduct  we  have  seen  him  pursue  at  Westacre — conduct  which 
probably  satisfied  his  conscience  ^  being  rigidly  exact  and 
honest.  On  Henry's  death  he  still  retained  one  of  his  places 
about  the  Court ;  but  on  King  Edward's  death,  being  a  partisan 
of  Queen  Mary's  and  a  hearty  conformer,  he  became  a  gi-eat 
favourite,  and  held  a  lucrative  post.  He  visited  Westacre  more 
frequently,  and  built  a  stately  range  of  buildings  on  one  side  of 
the  court,  where  formerly  the  old  stables  and  kitchen  v/ere,  no 
doubt  for  his  son's  sake,  enlarging  the  garden  on  that  side  to 
form  a  terrace  in  front  of  the  new  rooms.  At  Queen  Mary's 
accession  service  was  recommenced  in  the  Prior's  Chapel,  which . 
was  repaired  and  fitted  up  afresh,  and  a  regular  priest  appointed 
to  serve  it.  Inglesant's  name  does  not  appear  in  the  trials  of 
the  Protestants,  a  circumstance  which  makes  it  appear  probable 
that  he  was  true  to  the  temporizing  policy  of  his  youth,  and 
kept  his  zeal  under  good  control.  When  EUzabeth  came  to  the 
throne,  the  service  in  the  Chapel  underwent  some  modification. 
King  Edward's  Service  Book  being  used.  The  service  then 
had  been  found  so  useful  to  the  neighbours  that  the  parish 
petitioned  for  its  continuance,  and  it  was  legally  settled  as  a 
chapelry.  The  priest  confcrmed  to  the  new  order  of  things, 
and  Richard  Ingiesant — who  at  that  time  resided  constantly 
at  Westacre — attended  the  service  regularly.     He  remained  a 


CHAP.  II.]  A  ROIHANCR  19 

Catholic,  but  during  tlie  first  seven  years  of  Queen  Elizabeth's 
*  reign,  which  were  all  he  lived  to  see,  the  Catholics  generally 
came  to  their  Parish  Churches  until  forbidden  by  the  Pope's 
Bull.  It  remained,  therefore,  for  his  son,  who  was  eighteen 
years  of  age  at  his  father's  death,  to  declare  himself;  and  he 
conformed  to  the  usage  of  the  English  Church.  He  resided 
entirely  at  Westacre,  with  an  occasional  visit  to  Court,  keeping 
open-handed  hospitality,  and  slightly  embarrassing  the  estate, 
though,  like  his  father,  he  had  only  one  child.  He  was  a 
favourer  of  the  Papists,  and  once  or  twice  was  in  trouble  on 
that  account;  but  being  perfectly  loyal,  and  a  very  popular 
man,  he  was  rather  a  favoui-ite  with  the  Queen,  who  always 
noticed  him  when  he  came  to  Court,  and  was  wont  to  say  that 
*'  the  dry  crust  Dick  Inglesant  gave  a  Papist  should  never  choke 
him  while  she  lived."  He  lived  beyond  the  term  of  years 
usual  in  his  family,  and  died  in  1629,  at  the  age  of  eighty-two, 
having  been  for  the  last  twenty  years  of  his  life,  since  the  death 
of  the  Queen,  entirely  under  the  guidance  of  his  son,  very  much 
to  his  own  advantage,  as  during  those  black  years  for  the 
Papists,  he  M^ould  most  probably  have  committed  imprudences 
which  might  have  been  his  ruin.  His  son,  whose  name  was 
Eustace,  was  a  shrewd  lawyer  and  courtier.  He  was — much 
more  than  his  father — a  Papist  at  heart,  but  he  conformed 
strictly  to  the  English  Church,  and  possessed  considerable 
indirect  influence  at  Coiurt.  He  was  thought  much  of  by  the 
Catholics,  who  regarded  him  as  one  of  their  most  powerful 
friends.  He  married  young,  in  1593,  but  he  had  no  children 
by  his  first  wife,  who  died  in  1610;  and  in  1620  he  married 
again,  a  Catholic  lady  v/ho  was  his  ward.  With  this  lady  he 
came  to  reside  at .  Westacre ;  but  two  years  after,  his  wife  died 
in  giving  birth  to  two  boys ;  and,  disgusted  with  the  country, 
he  left  the  two  infants  to  their  grandfather's  care  and  retiu:ned 
to  London,  visiting  Westacre,  however,  regularly  at  intervals ; 
where,  with  a  small  number  of  servants,  the  old  gentleman, 
totally  forgetful  of  his  old  hospitality,  and  of  his  friends  the 
Papists,  spent  his  last  days  with  the  greatest  delight,  in  anx- 
iously watching  over  his  little  grandchildren.  They  were 
beautiful  boys,  so  exactly  alike  that  it  was  impossible  to  tell 
them  apart,  and  from  their  earliest  infancy  so  united  in  love  to 
each  other  that  they  became  a  proverb  in  the  neighbourhood. 
The   eldes-.t   was   named   Eustace,  aft&r   his   father;    but   the 


20  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [CHAP.  IL 

youngest,  at  the  entreaty  of  his  young  mother — uttered  in 
her  faint  and  dying  voice,  as  the  children  lay  hefore  her  during 
the  few  moments  that  were  given  her  in  mercy  to  look  at  them 
before  her  eyes  were  closed  on  these  dearly  purchased  treasures 
and  all  other  earthly  things — was  named  John,  after  her 
brother,  a  Seminary  priest  of  Douay,  executed  in  England  for 
saying  mass,  and  refusing  the  oath  of  supremacy. 

Little  need  be  told  of  the  infancy  of  these  boys  :  traditions 
remain,  as  in  other  cases,  of  their  likeness  to  each  other,  needing 
different  coloured  ribbons  to  distinguish  them ;  and  of  the  old 
man's  anxious  doting  care  over  them.  Many  a  pretty  group, 
doubtless,  they  made,  on  warm  summer  afternoons,  on  the  shady 
terrace;  but  the  old  gTandfather  died  when  they  were  seven 
years  old,  and  slept  with  his  father  beneath  the  Chapel  floor. 
After  the  funeral,  Eustace  Inglesant  had  intended  taking  both 
the  children  back  with  him  to  London,  but  he  had  discovered — 
or  fancied  he  had  discovered- — that  the  youngest  was  sickly,  and 
would  be  better  for  the  country  air ;  and  therefore  kept  him  at 
Westacre,  when  he  returned  to  the  city  with  his  brotlier.  The 
tnith  appears  to  be  that  he  was  a  worldly,  selfish  man,  and 
■while  fully  conscious  of  the  advantage  of  an  heir,  he  was  by  no 
means  desirous  of  giving  himself  more  trouble  than  was  neces- 
sary about  either  of  his  children.  The  old  Priory,  liowever, 
was,  at  this  time,  not  a  bad  place  to  bring  up  a  child  in,  though 
it  had  been  neglected  during  the  last  ten  or  eleven  years ;  though 
the  woods  were  overgrown,  and  the  oaks  came  up,  in  places, 
close  to  the  house ;  though  the  Prior's  fish-ponds  had  transformed 
themselves  into  a  large  pool  or  lake ;  though  the  garden  was"  a 
tangled  wilderness,  and  centaury,  woodsorrel,  and  sour  herbs 
covered  the  ground ;  though  the  old  courtyard  and  the  Chapel 
itself  were  mouldering  and  ruinous,  yet  the  air  of  the  rich  vales 
in  the  north  of  Wiltshire  is  more  healtliy  than  that  of  the 
higher  downs,  which  are  often  covered  with  fogs  when  the  vales 
are  clear,  and  the  sky  is  bright  and  serene.  It  was  i-emarked 
that  people  lived  longer  in  the  valleys  than  at  places  that  would 
be  sup}X»sed  peculiarly  healthy  on  the  hills;  that  they  sang 
better  in  the  churches  ;  ai-id  that  books  and  rooms  were  not  so 
damp  and  mouldy  in  the  low  situations  as  they  were  in  those 
which  stood  very  high,  with  no  river  or  marsh  near  them.  The 
fogs  at  times,  indeed,  came  down  into  the  valleys ;  and  in  the 
com'tyard  of  the  Priory  dim  forms  had  been  seen  flitting  through 


CHAP.  II.]  A  ROMANCE.  21 

the  mist,  in  reality  the  shadows  of  the  spectators  thrown  upon 
the  mist  itself,  from  the  light  of  a  laiithorn.  Such  sights  as 
these  in  such  a  place,  so  haunted  by  the  memories  of  the  past, 
gave  rise  to  many  strange  stories — to  which  young  Inglesant 
listened  with  wonder,  as  he  did,  also,  to  others  of  the  ignis  fattius, 
which,  called  by  the  people  "Kit  of  the  Candlestick,"  used, 
about  Michaelmas,  to  be  very  common  on  the  downs,  and  to 
wander  down  to  the  valleys  across  the  low  boggy  grounds — 
stories  of  its  leading  travellers  astray,  and  fascinating  them. 
The  boy  grew  up  among  such  strange  stories,  and  lived,  indeed, 
in  the  old  world  that  was  gone  for  ever.  His  grandfather's 
dimly  remembered  anecdotes  were  again  and  again  recalled  by 
others,  all  of  the  same  kind,  which  he  heard  every  day.  Stories 
of  the  rood  in  the  Chapel,  of  the  mass  wafer  with  its  mysterious 
awfulness  and  power ;  of  the  processions  and  midnight  singing 
at  the  Priory.  The  comitry  was  full  of  the  scattered  spoil  of 
the  monasteries  ;  old  and  precious  manuscripts  were  used 
everywhere  by  the  schoolboys  for  covering  their  books,  and 
for  the  covers  of  music ;  and  the  glovers  of  JMalmsbury  wrapped 
their  goods  in  them.  In  the  churchyards  the  yew-trees  stood 
thick  and  undecayed,  scarcely  grown  again  fi-om  the  last  lopping 
to  supply  boughs  for  the  archers  of  the  King's  army.  The 
story  was  common  of  the  Becket's  path,  along  which  he  had 
been  used  to  pass  when  cm^d  priest  at  Wiuterbourn,  and  which 
could  be  seen  through  the  deepest  snow,  or  if  ploughed  up  and 
sown  with  corn.  Indeed  the  path  itself  could  be  seen  within  a 
pleasant  ride  across  the  downs  from  Westacre. 

The  boy's  first  instructor  was  the  old  cm\ate  of  the  Chapel, 
who  taught  him  his  Church  Catechism  and  his  Latin  grammar. 
This  man  appears  to  have  been  one  of  those  ministers  so  despised 
by  the  Pmitans  as  "  mere  gi'ammar  scholars,"  who  knew  better 
how  to  read  a  homily  than  to  make  a  sermon ;  yet  John  Ingle- 
sant learnt  of  him  more  good  lessons  than  he  did,  as  he  himself 
owned,  afterwards  from  many  popular  sermons ;  and  in  his  old 
age  he  acknowledged  that  he  believed  the  only  thing  that  had 
kept  him  back  in  after  years  and  under  great  temptations,  from 
formally  joining  the  communion  of  the  Church  of  Rome,  was 
some  faint  prejudice,  some  lingering  dislike,  grounded  %n  the 
old  man's  teaching.  Other  teachers,  of  a  difterent  kind,  the 
child  had  in  plenty.  The  old  servants  who  still  remained  iu 
the  house ;   the  woodsmen  and  charcoal  bm-ners ;   the  village 


22  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [cHAP.  IL 

girls  whom  the  housekeeper  hired  from  year  to  year  at  Malms- 
bury  fair ;  the  old  housekeeper  who  had  been  his  mother's  maid, 
and  whoin  the  boy  looked  on  as  his  mother,  and  who  could  coax 
him  to  her  lap  when  he  was  quite  a  tall  boy,  by  telling  him 
stories  of  his  mother ;  one  or  two  Mconers  or  huntsmen  Avho 
lingered  about  the  place,  or  watched  the  woods  for  game  for  the 
gentry  around.  When  he  was  ten  years  old,  in  1632,  the  curate 
of  the  Chapel  died ;  and  Mr.  Inglesant  did  not  at  once  replace 
him,  for  reasons  which  will  appear  presently.  John  led  a  broken 
scholastic  life  for  a  year,  going  to  school  when  it  was  fine  enough 

to  make  a  pleasant  walk  attractive  to ,  where  the  Vicar 

taught  some  boys  their  grammar  and  Latin  Terence  in  the  Church 
itself;  and  where  there  was  a  tradition  that  the  great  antiquary, 
Master  Camden,  Clarencieux  King  of  Arms,  coming  on  his  survey 
to  examine  the  Church,  found  him,  and  spoke  to  him  and  his 
scholars.  At  the  end  of  a  year,  however,  his  father  coming  into 
the  country,  arranged  for  him  to  go  to  school  at  Ashley,  where 
he  was  to  stay  in  the  house  with  the  Vicar,  a  famous  school- 
master in  the  West  country.  This  gentleman,  who  was  a  deli- 
cate and  little  person,  and  had  an  easy  and  atti'active  way  of 
teaching,  was  a  Greek  scholar  and  a  Platonist,  a  Rosicrucian  and 
a  believer  in  alchemy  and  astrology.  He  found  in  little  Ingle- 
sant an  apt  pupil,  an  apprehensive  and  inquisitive  boy,  mild  of 
spirit,  and  very  susceptible  of  fascination,  strongly  given  to 
superstition  and  romance ;  of  an  inventive  imagination  though 
not  a  retentive  memory;  given  to  day -dreaming,  and, — what 
is  more  often  found  in  children  than  some  may  think,  though 
perhaps  they  could  not  name  it, — metaphysical  speculation. 
The  Vicar  taught  his  boys  in  the  hall  of  his  Vicarage — a  large 
room  with  a  porch,  and  armorial  bearings  in  the  stained  glass 
in  the  windows.  Out  of  this  opened  a  closet  or  parlour  where 
he  kept  his  books,  and  in  this  he  would  sit  after  school  was  over, 
writing  his  learned  treatises,  most  of  which  he  would  read  to 
John  Inglesant,  some  of  them  in  Latin.  This,  with  his  readings 
in  Plato,  assisted  by  his  eager  interest,  gave  John,  as  he  grew, 
older,  a  considerable  acquaintance  with  both  languages,  so  that 
he  could  read  most  books  in  either  of  them,  and  turn  over  the 
remnants  of  the  old  w^orld  learning  that  still  remained  in  the 
Prior's  library,  with  that  lazy  flicility  which  always  gives  a 
meaning,  though  often  an  incorrect  one — not  always  a  matter 
of  regret  to  an  imaginative  reader,  as  adding  a  chai-m,  and, 


CHAP.  II.]  A  ROMANCE.  23 

where  his  own  thought  is  happy,  a  beauty.  He.  e  he  imbibed 
that  mysterious  Platonic  philosophy,  which — seen  through  the 
reflected  rays  of  Christianity — becomes,  as  his  master  taught 
him,  in  some  sort  a  foreshadowing  of  it,  as  the  innocent  and 
heroic  life  of  Socrates,  commended  and  admired  by  Christians 
as  well  as  heathens,  together  with  his  august  death,  may  be 
thought,  in  some  measure,  to  have  borne  the  image  of  Christ ; 
and,  indeed,  not  without  some  mystery  of  pm-pose,  and  prepara- 
tion of  men  for  Christianity,  has  been  so  magnified  among  men. 
Here,  too,  he  eagerly  drank  in  his  master's  Rosicrucian  theories 
of  spiritual  existences  :  of  the  vital  congruity  and  three  several 
vehicles  of  the  soul ;  the  terrestrial,  in  which  the  soul  should 
be  so  trained  that  she  may  stay  as  short  f"a  time  as  possible  in 
the  second  or  aerial,  but  proceed  at  once  to  the  third,  the 
ethereal,  or  celestial;  "that  heavenly  chariot,  carrying  us,  in 
triumph,  to  the  great  happiness  of  the  soul  of  man."  Of  the 
aerial  genii,  and  souls  separate,  and  of  their  converse  with  one 
another,  and  with  mankind.  Of  their  dress,  beauty,  and  out- 
ward form ;  of  their  pleasures  and  entertainments,  from  the 
Divinest  harmony  of  the  higher  orders,  who,  with  voices  per- 
fectly imitating  the  passionate  utterance  of  their  devout  minds, 
melt  their  souls  into  Divine  love,  and  lose  themselves  in  joy  in 
God ;  while  all  nature  is  transformed  by  them  to  a  quintessence 
of  crystalline  beauty  by  the  chemical  power  of  the  spirit  of  nature, 
acting  on  pure  essences.  Of  the  feastings  and  wild  dances  of 
the  lower  and  deeply  lapsed,  in  whom  some  sad  and  fantastic 
imitation  of  the  higher  orders  is  to  be  traced ;  and  of  those  aerial 
wanderers  to  whom  poetical  philosophers  or  philosophical  poets 
have  given  the  rivers  and  springs — the  mountains  and  groves ; 
with  the  Dii  Tutelares  of  cities  and  countries  ;  and  the  Lares 
familiares,  who  love  the  warmth  of  families  and  the  homely 
converse  of  men.  These  studies  are  but  a  part  of  the  coiu'se  of 
which  occult  chemistry  and  the  lore  of  the  stars  form  a  part ; 
and  that  mysterious  Platonism  which  teaches  that  Pindar's  story 
of  the  Argo  is  only  a  secret  recipe  for  the  philosopher's  stone  ; 
and  which  pretends  that  a,t  this  distance  of  time  the  life  of 
Priam  can  be  read  more  surely  in  the  stars  than  in  history. 

More  than  three  years  passed  in  these  pursuits,  when  Ingle- 
sant, — now  a  tall,  handsome,  dreamy-looldng  boy  of  fourteen, 
was  suddenly  recalled  to  Westacre  by  his  father,  who  had  imex- 
pectedly  arrived  from  London.     His  master,  who  was  very  fond 


24  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap.  II. 

of  him,  gave  him  many  words  of  learned  advice ;  for  he  expected, , 
as  proved  to  be  the  case,  that  his  school-days — at  least  as  far 
as  he  was  concerned — were  ended.     He  concluded  with  these 
words  : — 

"I  have  done  my  best  to  show  you  those  hidden  truths 
which  the  heathen  divines  knew  as  well  as  we;  how  much 
moi-e,  then,  ought  we  to  follow  them,  who  have  the  light  of 
Christ !  Do  not  talk  of  these  things,  but  keep  them  in  yoiu' 
heart ;  hear  what  all  men  say,  but  follow  no  man :  there  is 
nothing  in  the  world  of  any  value  but  the  Divine  Light, — follow 
it.  What  it  is  no  man  can  tell  you ;  but  I  have  told  you  many 
times,  and  you  know  very  well,  it  is  not  here  nor  there,  as  men 
shall  tell  you,  for  all  men  say  they  have  it  who  are  ignorant  of 
its  very  nature.  It  will  reveal  itself  when  the  time  shall  come. 
If  you  go  to  the  Coiu-t,  as  I  think  you  will,  attach  yourself 
wholly  to  the  King  and  the  Church  party,  the  foundations  of 
whose  power  are  in  the  Divine  will.  I  foresee  dark  clouds 
overhanging  the  Church,  but  let  not  these  affright  you ;  behind, 
the  Divine  Light  shiueth — the  Light  that  shineth  from  the  hill 
of  God.  I  have  taught  you  to  clear  your  soul  from  the  mists 
of  carnal  error,  but  I  have  never  told  you  to  act  freely  in  this 
world  :  you  are  not  placed  here  to  reason  (as  the  sectaries  and 
precisians  do),  but  to  obey.  Remember  it  is  the  very  seal  of  a 
gentleman — to  obey ;  remember  the  Divine  words  of  Plato,  in 
the  Crito,  when  Socrates  was  about  to  suffer :  how  he  refused, 
when  urged,  to  break  those  laws  under  which  he  was  falsely 
condemned.  Let  those  words  ring  in  yoiu:  ears  as  they  did  in 
his;  so  that,  like  the  worshippers  of  Cybele,  who  heard  only 
the  flutes,  you  shall  hear  nothing  but  the  voice  of  God,  speaking 
to  you  in  that  rank  in  which  He  has  placed  you,  through  those 
captains  whom  he  haS  ordained  to  the  command.  Whenever — 
and  in  whatever  place — the  Divine  Light  shall  appear  to  you, 
be  assm-ed  it  will  never  teach  you  anything  contrary  to  this." 

There  was  no  horse  sent  for  John,  but  he  was  obliged  to 
ride  in  an  uncomfortable  manner  before  the  serving  man  who 
was  sent  to  fetch  him ;  children,  and  especially  younger  sons, 
being  treated  as  little  better  than  servants,  and  they  were 
indeed  often  tyrannized  over  by  the  latter.  When  he  reached 
Westacre,  he  was  told  his  father  was  in  one  of  the  rooms  in  the 
new  wing  of  the  house,  and  on  entering,  he  found  him  in  com- 
pany with  three  other  persons.     One  of  these  was  the  newly 


CHAP.  II.]  A  ROMANCE.  25 

.  appointed  curate  of  the  Chiirch,  whom  Johnny  had  never  yet 
seen;  the  other  was  a  fine,  handsomely  dressed  man,  with  a 
lofty  high-bred  look,  and  in  the  window  was  a  beautiful  boy  of 
about  John's  own  age  in  the  costly  dress  of  a  page.  Inglesant 
knew  that  this  must  be  his  brother  Eustace ;  and  after  humbly 
receiving  his  father's  rather  cold  greeting,  he  hastened  to  embrace 
him,  and  he  returned  the  greeting  with  warmth.  But  his  father 
immediately  presented  him  to  the  gentleman  who  stood  by  him ; 
telling  him  that  this  gentleman  would  probably  spend  some  time 
at  Westacre,  and  that  it  was  chiefly  that  he  shoidd  attend  him, 
■*^^hat  he  had  sent  for  him  home ;  charging  him,  at  the  same 
time,  to  serve  and  obey  him  implicitly,  as  he  would  his  father 
or  the  King. 

"  He  is  a  mere  country  lad,*'  he  said,  "  very  different  from 
his  brother;  but  he  is  young,  and  may  be  usefid  in  after 
days." 

The  gentleman  looked  at  Johnny  kindly,  with  a  peculiar 
expression  which  the  boy  had  never  before  seen,  penetrating 
and  alluiing  at  the  same  time. 

"  He  is,  as  ytm  say.  Esquire,  a  country  lad,  and  wants  the 
fine  clothes  of  my  friend  the  page,  nevertheless  he  is  a  gallant 
and  gentle  boy,  and  were  he  attired  as  finely,  would  not  shame 
you,  Mr.  luglesant,  more  tha.n  he  does.  And  I  warrant,"  he 
continued,  "  this  one  is  good  at  his  books." 

And  sitting  down,  he  drew  Johnny  on  his  knee,  and  taking 
from  his  pocket  a  small  book,  he  said  :  "  Here,  my  friend,  let 
us  see  how  you  can  read  in  this." 

It  was  the  Phaedo  of  Plato,  which  Johnny  knew  nearly  by 
neart,  and  he  immediately  began,  with  almost  breathless  rapidity, 
to  construe  with,  here  and  there,  considerable  freedom,  till  the 
gentleman  stopped  him  with  a  laugh.  '"'Gently,  gently,  my 
friend.  I  saw  you  were  a  scholar,  but  not  that  you  were  a 
complete  Platonist !  I  fear  your  master  is  one  who  looks  more 
to  the  Divine  sense  than  to  the  grammar  !  But  never  mind, 
you  and  I  shall  be  much  together,  and  as  you  are  so  fond  of 
Plato,  you  shall  read  him  with  me.  You  shall  go  to  your 
brother,  who,  if  he  cannot  read  'In  Phaedone,'  can  tell  you 
many  wonderful  things  of  the  Court  and  the  city  that  no  doubt 
you  will  hear  very  gladly;"  and  letting  Johnny  go,  he  turned 
to  his  father,  saying,  in  an  undertone,  which,  however,  tlie  boy 
heard,  "  The  lad  is  apt,  indeed !  more  so  than  any  of  ui  could 


26  JOHN  INGLES  ANT ;  [chap.  II. 

have  dreamt ;  no  fitter  soil,  I  could  wager,  we  coiild  have  found 

in  England!" 

Johnny  went  to  his  brother,  and  they  left  the  room  together. 
The  two  boys, — as  the  two  children  had  been, — were  remark- 
ably alike ;  the  more  so  as  this  likeness  of  form  and  feature, 
which  to  a  casual  observer  appeared  exact,  was  consistent  with 
a  very  remarkable  difference  of  expression  and  manner — the 
difference  being,  as  it  were,  contained  in  the  likeness  without 
destroying  it.  Their  affection  for  each  other,  which  continued 
through  life,  was  something  of  the  same  character,  arising 
apparently  from  instinct  and  nature,  apart  from  inclination. 
Their  tastes  and  habits  being  altogether  different,  they  pursued 
their  several  courses  quite  contentedly,  without  an  effort  to  be 
more  united,  but  once  united,  or  once  recalled  to  each  other's 
presence  or  recollection  even  in  the  most  accidental  manner, 
they  manifested  a  violent  and  overpowering  attachment  to  each 
other.  On  the  present  occasion  they  wandered  through  the 
gardens  and  neighbourhood  of  the  Priory ;  and  as  the  strange 
gentleman  had  foretold,  Johnny  took  the  greatest  interest  in 
the  conversation  of  his  brother,  whom,  indeed,  he  both  now  and 
afterwards  most  unfeignedly  admired,  and  to  whose  patronage 
he  invariably  submitted  with  perfect  satisfaction.  Eustace, 
who  had  lately  been  admitted  one  of  the  junior  supernumerary 
pages  to  the  King,  talked  incessantly  of  the  King's  state  and 
presence  chamber,  of  the  yeomen  of  the  guard,  of  the  pageants 
and  masques,  and  of  banquets,  triumphs,  interviews,  nuptials, 
tilts,  and  tournaments,  the  innmnerable  delights  of  the-  city ; 
of  the  stage  players,  tumblers,  fiddlers,  inn -keepers,  fencers, 
jugglers,  dancers,  mountebanks,  bear-wardens ;  of  sweet  odours 
and  perfumes,  generous  wines,  the  most  gallant  young  men,  the 
fiiirest  ladies,  the  rarest  beauties  the  world  could  afford,  the 
costly  and  cmious  attire,  exquisite  music,  all  delights  and 
pleasures  which,  to  please  the  senses,  could  possibly  be  devised; 
galleries  and  terraces,  rowing  on  the  Thames,  with  music,  on  a 
pleasant  evening,  with  the  goodly  palaces,  and  the  birds  singing 
on  the  banks. 

All  this  Johnny  listened  to  with  admiration,  and  made  little 
reply  to  his  brother's  disparaging  remarks  on  the  miserable  life 
he  had  led  in  the  country,  or  to  his  sage  advice  to  endeavour, 
by  some  means,  to  come  to  London  to  the  Com't. 

Johnny  remembered  his  master's  toimsel,  and  was  silent  ou 


CHAP.  II.]  A  ROMA^^CE.  27 

his  own  pleasures  and  pursuits.  His  pleasant  walks  by  the 
brook  side,  pleasant  shade  by  the  sweet  silver  streams,  good  air, 
and  sweet  smell  of  fine,  fresh  meadow  flowers,  his  walks  among 
orchards,  gardens,  green  thickets,  and  such-like  places,  in  some 
solitary  gx'oves  between  wood  and  water,  meditating  on  some 
delightful  and  pleasant  subject — he  thought  his  brother  would 
only  ridicide  these  things.  It  is  true  the  next  day  when  they 
went  to  the  Avon  to  see  an  otter  hunted,  Johnny  occupied  the 
foremost  place  for  a  time ;  he  was  known  to  the  keepers,  and  to 
two  or  three  gentlemen  who  were  at  the  sport,  and  w^as  familiar 
with  the  terms  in  tracing  the  mark  of  the  otter,  and  following 
through  all  the  craft  of  the  hunting,  tracing  the  marks  in  the 
soft  and  moist  places  to  see  which  way  the  head  of  the  chase 
was  turned.  He  carried  his  otter  spear  as  well  as  any  of  the 
company,  while  the  hounds  came  trailing  and  chanting  along  by 
the  river-side,  venting  every  tree  root,  every  osier  bed  and  tuft 
of  bulrushes,  and  sometimes  taking  to  the  water,  and  beating  it 
like  spaniels.  But  as  soon  as  the  otter,  escaping  from  the  spears, 
was  killed  by  the  dogs,  or,  having  by  its  wonderful  sagacity  and 
craft  avoided  the  dogs,  was  killed  by  the  spears,  Eustace  as- 
sumed his  superior  place,  coming  forward  to  talk  to  the  gentle- 
men, who  were  delighted  with  him,  while  Johnny  fell  back  into 
the  quiet,  dreamy  boy  again. 

The  two  brothers  were  left  together  for  several  days,  their' 
father,  with  the  strange  gentleman — whose  name  Eustace  told 
Johnny  was  Hall — having  departed  on  horseback,  on  a  visit  to 
a  gentleman  in  Gloucestershire.  Eustace  observed  great  cau- 
tion in  speaking  of  Mr.  Hall,  telling  Johnny  he  would  know  all 
about  him  soon  from  himself.  The  boys  passed  the  time  happily 
enough.  Johnny's  affection  for  his  brother  increased  every  day, 
and  withstood  not  only  Eustace's  patronage,  but — what  must 
have  been  much  more  hard  to  bear — the  different  way  in  which 
the  servants  treated  the  two  boys.  Eustace,  who,  though  only 
a  few  minutes  older  than  his  brother,  was  the  heir,  was  treated 
with  great  deference  and  respect ;  which  might  possibly  also  be 
cwing  to  his  being  a  stranger  and  to  his  Court  breeding.  Johnny, 
on  the  contrary,  though  he  was  quite  as  tall  as  his  brother,  they 
treated  like  a  child  :  the  housekeeper  took  him  up  to  bed  when 
it  pleased  her ;  the  old  butler  woidd  have  caned  him  without 
hesitation  had  he  thought  he  deserved  it ;  and  the  maids  alter- 
nately petted  and  scolded  him,  the  first  of  which  was  more  dis* 


28  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap.  Ii, 

agreeable  to  him  than  the  last.  The  hard  condition  of  children, 
and  especially  of  younger  brothers,  is  a  common  theme  of  the 
writers  of  the  period,  and  Johnny's  experience  was  not  different 
from  that  of  others.  His  disposition,  however,  was  not  injured 
by  it,  though  it  may  have  made  him  still  fonder  of  retirement 
and  of  day-dreaming  than  he  would  have  been.  This  hard  dis- 
cipline made  him  resolve  to  be  silent  on  those  wonderful  secrets 
and  the  learning  that  his  master  had  taught  him,  and  to  medi- 
tate increasingly  upon  them  in  his  heart.  He  delighted  more 
and  more  in  wandering  by  the  river-side,  building  castles  in  the 
air,  and  acting  an  infinite  variety  of  parts.  When  his  brother 
left  him,  this  became  still  more  delightful  to  him,  and  but  for 
other  influences  he  might  have  gone  on  in  this  fascinating  habit 
till  he  realised  Burton's  terrible  description,  and  from  finding 
these  contemj^lations  and  fantastical  conceits  so  delightful  at 
fii'st,  might  have  become  the  slave  of  vain  and  unreal  fancies, 
whiqh  may  be  as  terrible  and  dismal  as  pleasing  and  delightfid. 

After  about  a  fortnight's  absence,  Mr.  Inglesant  and  Mr. 
Hall  retm-ned  from  their  visit,  or  visits,  for  they  appeared  to 
have  stayed  at  several  places ;  and  the  next  day  Eustace  and  his 
father  departed  for  London.  His  father  displayed  more  affection 
than  usual  on  leaving  Johnny  behind  him,  assiuing  him  of  his 
love,  and  that  if  he  heard  a  good  account  of  him  from  Mr.  Hall, 
he  should  come  up  to  London  and  see  the  Coiu"t.  Eustace's 
grief  at  losing  his  brother  again  was  much  lessened  by  his  joy  at 
returning  to  his  congenial  life  in  London ;  but  Johnny  watched 
him  from  the  old  gate-house  in  front  of  the  Priory  with  a  sad 
heart. 

A¥hile  he  is  standing  looking  after  his  father  and  brother,  as 
they  ride  up  the  hill  by  the  same  path  which  the  Prior  came 
down  that  fine  summer  morning  long  years  before,  we  will  take 
a  moment's  time  to  explain  certain  events  of  which  he  was  per- 
fectly ignorant,  but  which  were  soon  to  close  about  him  and 
involve  him  in  a  labyrinth  from  which  he  may  have  been  said 
never  to  have  issued  during  his  life.  We  call  om-selves  free 
agents  ; — was  this  sliglit,  delicate  boy  a  free  agent,  witlfa  min(J 
and  spirit  so  susceptible,  that  the  leasf  breath  -affected  them : 
around  whom  the  throng  of  national  contention  was  about  to 
close ;  on  whom  the  intrigue  of  a  great  religious  party  was 
about  to  seize,  involving  him  in  a  whirlpool  and  rapid  cmTent 
of  party  strife  and  religious  rancour?    Must  not  the  utmost 


CHAP.  II.]  A  ROMANCE.  29 

that  can  be  hoped, — that  can  be  even  rationally  wished  for — be, 
that  by  the  blessing  of  the  Divine  guidance,  he  may  be  able  to 
direct  his  path  a  little  towards  the  Light  1 

The  laws  oppressing  the  Eoman  Catholics,  which  had  been 
stringently  enforced  during  the  greater  part  of  Jiimes's,  reign, 
had  been  considerably  relaxed  when  he  was  negotiating  ^vith 
the  Spaniards  for  the  marriage  of  his  son,  and  again  on  King 
Charles's  marriage  with  Henrietta  Maria  of  France.  From  that 
time  greater  and  greater  leniency  was  shown  them,  not  only 
by  the  exertion  of  Catholic  influence  at  Court,  but  also  through 
Puritan  jealousy ;  the  juries  refusing  to  punish  popish  recusants, 
because  Puritan  separatists  were  included  in  the  lists.  Spas- 
modic exertions  of  severity  were  made  from  time  to  time  by  the 
King  and  the  Church  party ;  but,  on  the  whole,  the  Papists  en- 
joyed more  and  more  liberty,  especially  between  1630  and  1640. 
Advantage  was  taken  by  the  party  of  this  freedom  to  the  fidlest 
extent;  money  was  amassed  abroad,  an  army  of  missionary 
priests  poiu-ed  into  England,  agents  were  sent  from  the  Pope, 
and  every  effort  made  in  every  part  of  England  to  gain  converts, 
and  coufii-m  uncertain  members.  Many  Papists  who  had  con- 
formed to  the  authority  of  the  EngHsh  Chm'ch  beginning  to 
entertain  hopes  of  the  ultimate  success  of  the  old  religion,  fell 
away  and  became  recusants — that  is,  ceased  to  attend  their 
Parish  Church.  Mr.  Inglesant,  wdio — through  all  his  life— had 
watched  the  progress  of  affairs  with  a  carefid  and  far-reaching 
penetration,  had,  from  the  first,  been  in  commmiication  with 
chiefs  of  the  popish  party;  but  he  was  far  too  important  a 
friend  where  he  was  to  allow  of  any  change  in  his  behaviour, 
and  he  stiU  rigidly  conformed  to  the  Established  Church.  The 
Roman  Catholics  were  divided  into  two  parties,  holding  two 
opinions,  which,  under  diff"erent  aspects,  actuate  all  religious 
parties  at  the  present  day.  The  one  viewed  the  English  Chm'cli 
and  its  leader  Ai'chbishop  Laud  with  hatred,  regarding  him,  and 
doubtless  with  great  truth,  as  their  most  formidable  opponent, 
as  occupying  a  place  in  the  country  and  in  the  allegiance  of  the 
majority  of  Englishmen  which  otherwise  could  only  have  been 
filled  by  the  older  Chm-ch  :  the  other,  looking  more  at  the  re- 
semblances between  the  tw^o  Churches,  held  the  opinion  that 
little  was  needed  to  bring  tlie  Established  Church  into  com- 
munion and  submission  to  the  Papal  See,  and  by  that  means,  at 
once,  and  without  trouble,  restore  the  papal  authority  in  Eng- 


30  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [cHAP.  II. 

land.  The  efforts  of  this  party  were  of  a  more  political  nature 
than  those  of  the  other ;  they  endeavoured  to  win  over  Arch- 
bishop Laud  to  a  conference,  and  a  Cardinal's  hat  was  offered 
to  him  more  than  once.  To  this  party  Mr.  Inglesant  belonged. 
Occupying  a  neutral  position  himself,  and  possessed  of  the  con- 
fidence of  members  of  both  Churches,  he  was  peculiarly  fitted 
for  such  negotiations,  and  was  in  constant  communication  with 
those  Chiu-chmen,  very  numerous  at  Court,  and  among  the 
clergy  and  the  country  gentry,  who  were  favourably  disposed 
to  the  Papists,  though  at  the  same  time  sincere  members  of 
their  own  Chiu-ch.  The  value  of  emissaries  possessing  in  this 
way  the  confidence  of  Church  people  and  Papists  alike  was  so 
obvious,  that  Mr.  Inglesant  and  his  friends  did  all  they  could  to 
add  to  their  number,  especially  as  they  were  not  very  easy  to 
procure,  great  jealousy  existing,  among  nearly  all  Church  people, 
of  any  foreign  or  armed  interference  in  England  on  the  part  of 
the  Romanists,  who  were  always  suspected  of  such  intentions. 
Mr.  Inglesant,  tlierefore,  whom  nothing  escaped,  had  marked 
out  his  younger  son's  temperament  as  one  peculiarly  fitted  to  be 
trained  for  such  a  piurpose,  and  had  communicated  this  idea  to 
his  intimate  associate  among  the  Papists,  Father  Sancta  Clara, 
as  he  was  called,  of  an  English  family  named  St.  Clare,  a  Jesuit 
missionary  priest  who  travelled  in  England  under  the  name  of 
Mr.  Hall.  The  latter  was  a  man  of  great  influence,  unbounded 
devotion  to  his  order,  and  unflinching  courage ;  a  profound 
scholar,  and,  according  to  the  knowledge  of  that  day,  a  man  of 
science,  trained,  indeed,  in  every  variety  of  human  learning,  and 
taking  advantage  of  ev^ery  scrap  of  knowledge  and  information 
for  the  advancement  of  his  purpose.  Of  elegant  and  fascinating 
manners,  and  accustomed  to  courtly  life  abroad,  he  was,  perhaps, 
the  most  influential  agent  among  the  thousand  mission  priests 
at  that  time  scattered  through  England.  His  time,  of  course, 
was  fully  taken  up  with  his  difficult  embassy,  but  he  was  in- 
terested in  the  account  Inglesant  gave  of  his  son ;  and  the  idea 
of  training  him  to  such  usefulness  in  three  or  four  years'  time, 
when  their  plans  might  be  expected  to  be  ripe,  commended  itself 
exceedingly  to  his  peculiar  genius  and  habit  of  mind.  He  was 
at  this  time  Superior  over  part  of  the  south-west  of  England, 
and  was  much  engaged  among  the  gentry  in  those  parts — a 
position  of  peculiar  difficulty,  as  the  people  of  the  greater  part 
of  that  district  were  strongly  Puritan,  and  the  gentry  hostile  to 


CHAP.  III.]  A  ROMANCE.  31 

Eome.  So  secluded  and  convenient  a  position  as  Westacre 
Priory  was  exactly  adapted  to  aid  him  in  his  mission,  and  he 
resolved  to  take  up  his  quarters  there,  from  whence  he  could, 
with  great  hopes  of  escaping  observation,  continue  his  work  in 
the  adjoining  country.  Mr.  Ingiesant,  with  an  eye  to  such  a 
contingency,  had  purposely  omitted  to  appoint  a  chaplain  at  the 
Priory  for  some  time,  and  now  nominated  a  Mr.  ,  a  gradu- 
ate of  Oxford,  a  man  who  was  "  ex  animo  "  a  Papist,  and  who 
only  waited  a  siutable  time  to  declare  himself  one.  The  number 
of  such  men  was  very  great,  and  they  were  kept  in  the  English 
Cluu'ch  only  by  the  High  Church  doctrines  and  ceremonies  in- 
troduced by  Archbishop  Laud ;  affording  one  out  of  numberless 
parallels  between  that  age  and  the  present.  It  is  perhaps  not 
necessary  to  say  more  in  this  place  to  explain  the  presence  of 
Mr.  Hall  (otherwise  Father  Sancta  Clara)  at  Westacre,  nor  the 
futiure  that  lay  before  Johnny  Ingiesant  as  he  stood  by  the  gate- 
house of  the  old  Priory  looking  after  his  father  and  Eustace  as 
they  rode  up  the  hilL 


CHAPTER  III. 

Father  Sancta  Clara  was  obliged  to  remain  quiet  at  West- 
acre  for  some  time,  and  devoted  himself  entirely  to  gaining  an 
influence  over  Johnny.  Of  com'se  in  this  he  was  entirely  suc- 
cessful. There  was  a  good  library,  for  that  day,  at  the  Priory ; 
the  Prior's  old  books  were  still  on  the  shelves,  and  Richard 
Ingiesant,  who  we  have  seen  was  a  scholar,  added  largely  to 
them,  bringing  all  his  books  into  the  coimtry  when  he  came  to 
live  at  Westacre.  The  difference  between  Johnny's  former 
master  and  his  present  one  was  that  between  a  theorist  and 
dreamei'  and  a  statesman'^  and  man  of  the  world  and  critical 
student  of  human  natm^e.  The  Father  made  Johnny  read  with 
him  every  day,  and  by  his  wealth  of  learning  and  acquaintance 
with  men  and  foreign  coim tries,  made  the  reading  interesting  in 
the  highest  degree.  In  this  way  he  read  the  classics,  making 
them  not  dead  school  books,  but  the  most  human  utterances 
that  living  men  ever  spoke ;  and  while  fi'om  these  he  drew  illus- 
trations of  human  life  when  reading  Plato — ^which  he  did  every 
day— he  led  his  pupil  to  perceive,  as  he  did  more  fully  when  h« 


32  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [cHAP.  III. 

grew  older,  that  wonderful  insight  into  the  spiritual  life  and 
spiritual  distinctions  which  even  Christianity  has  failed  to  snr- 
pass.  He  led  him,  step  by  step,  through  that  noble  resolve  by 
which  Socrates — at  frightfid  odds,  and  with  all  ordinary  experi- 
ence against  him — maintains  the  advantage  to  be  derived  from 
truth ;  he  pointed  out  to  him  the  three  different  elements  to  be 
found  in  Plato  :  the  Socratic  or  negative  argiunent,  simply  over- 
throwing received  opinion ;  the  pseudo-scientific,  to  which  Plato 
was  liable  from  the  condition  of  knowledge  in  his  day;  and, 
finally,  the  exalted  flight  of  the  transcendental  reason,  which, 
Graving  alike  the  scepticism  of  the  negative  argument  and  the 
dreams  of  false  science,  flies  aloft  into  the  pure  ether  of  the 
heavenly  life.  He  read  to  him  Aristophanes,  pointing  out  in 
him  the  oj^posing  powers  which  w^ere  at  w^ork  in  the  Hellenic 
life  as  in  the  life  of  every  civilized  age.  He  did  not  conceal 
from  him  the  amount  of  right  tliere  is  on  the  poiDidar  side  of 
plain  common  sense,  nor  the  soundness  of  that  fear  which  hesi- 
tates to  overthrow  the  popular  forms  of  truth,  time-honoured 
and  revealed,  which  have  become  in  the  eyes  of  the  majority, 
however  imperfect  they  may  really  be,  the  truth  itself.  Nor 
did  he  fail  to  show  him  the  unsuitability  of  the  Socratic  argu- 
ment to  the  masses  of  the  people,  wdio  will  stop  at  the.  negative 
part,  and  fail  of  the  ethereal  flight  beyond ;  and  he  showed  him 
how  it  might  be  possible,  and  even  the  best  thing  for  mankind, 
that  Socrates  should  die,  though  Socrates  at  that  moment  was 
the  noblest  of  mankind :  as,  afterwards,  though  for  a  different 
reason,  it  was  expedient  that  a  nobler  than  Socrates  should  die 
for  the  people, — nobler,  that  is,  in  that  he  did  what  Socrates 
failed  in  doifig,  and  carried  the  low^est  of  the  people  w-ith  him 
to  the  ethereal  gates.  And  in  this  entering  into  sympathy  with 
the  struggle  of  humanity,  he  prepared  his  pupil  to  receive  in 
after  years  (for  it  is  a  lesson  that  cannot  be  fidly  learned  until 
middle  life  is  approached)  that  kindly  love  of  humanity ;  that 
sympathy  with  its  smallest  interests ;  that  toleration  of  its  errors, 
and  of  its  conflicting  opinions  ;  that  interest  in  local  and  familiar 
affairs,  in  which  the  highest  culture  is  at  one  with  the  unlearned 
rustic  mind. 

The  boy  drank  in  all  this  with  the  greatest  aptitude,  and 
would  have  listened  all  day,  but  his  tutor  insisted  on  his  taking 
liis  full  aiiiount  of  exercise,  and  himself  commanded  his  admira- 
tion as  much  by  skill  in  the  sports  of  the  field  as  by  leai'ning. 


CHAP,  iir.]  A  ROMANCE.  33 

He  made  no  effort  to  draw  his  mind  away  from  the  -English 
Church,  ftirther  than  by  giving  him  a  crucifix  and  rosary,  and 
teaching  him  the  use  of  them,  and  pointing  out  the  beauties  of 
the  Roman  use;  he  even  took  pains  to  prevent  his  becoming 
attached  to  Popery,  telhng  him  that  his  father  would  not  wish 
him  to  leave  the  Church  of  England ;  and  though  that  Chm'ch 
was  at  present  in  schism,  it  would  probably  soon  be  reunited, 
and  that  meanwhile  the  difference  was  unimportant  and  slight. 
He  knew,  indeed,  that  from  the  excitable  and  enthusiastic 
nature  of  his  pupil,  if  he  once  became  attached  strongly  to 
Roman  theology,  all  his  use  as  a  mediator  between  the  two 
parties  would  at  once  be  lost ;  and  he  therefore  contented  him- 
self with  securing  his  own  influence  over  Johnny;  which  he 
accomplished  to  the  most  unlimited  extent. 

After  certain  preparations  had  been  made,  and  some  needfid 
precautions  taken,  a  great  change  took  place  in  the  life  at  West- 
acre  Priory.  Strangers  were  constantly  arriving,  stayed  a  few 
hours,  and  departed,  mostly  coming  in  the  night,  and  leaving, 
also,  3-fter  sunset.  Several,  however,  remained  a  longer  time, 
and  took  great  pains  to  conceal  themselves.  They  all  had  long 
interviews  with  the  Father.  Services  were  also  performed  in 
the  Chapel,  frequently  in  Latin.  It  was 'death  to  say  mass  in 
England,  except  in  the  Queen's  Chapels  at  St  James's,  at  Somer- 
set House,  and  at  Woodstock,  nevertheless  mass  was  said  in  all 
parts  of  England,  and  it  was  said  at  Westacre.  One  night,  after 
Johnny  had  been  asleep  for  some  hours,  he  was  awakened  by 
Father  St.  Clare,  who  told  him  to  dress  himself  and  come  with 
him,  and,  at  the  same  time,  charged  him  never  to  tell  any  one 
what  he  might  be  about  to  see— an  injunction  which  the  boy 
would  have  died  rather  than  disobey.  The  long  streaks  of  the 
summer  dawn  stretched  across  the  sky  before  them  as  they 
crossed  the  com'tyard  towards  the  Chapel,  and  the  roofs  stood 
out  sharp  and  distinct  in  the  dim,  chill  air.  The  Chapel  was 
lighted,  and  on  the  white  cloth  of  the  altar  were  tapers  and 
19.0 wers.  Half  awake  in  the  sweet  fresh  morning  air,  Johnny 
knelt  on  the  cold  flag-stones  of  the  Chapel  and  saw  the  mass. 
Strangers  who  had  come  to  the  Priory  on  purpose  were  present, 
and  some  gentlemen  of  the  neighbourhood  whom  Johnny  knew. 
It  is  strange  that  the  Jesuit  should  have  placed  so  much  trust 
in  the  prudence  and  fidelity  of  a  boy ;  but  he  probably  knew  his 
pupil,  and  certainly  had  no  cause  to  repent.     This  was  not  the 

D 


34  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [cHAP.  III. 

only  time  mass  wis  said ;  for  one  winter  night — or  rather  morn- 
ing— an  old  peasant,  known  in  the  neighbourhood  as  Father 
Wade,  had  been  to  Marlborough  wake,  and  being  benighted, 
bethought  himself  of  asking  a  lodging  at  the  Priory,  and  ap- 
proached it  by  a  pathway  from  the  east,  Avhich,  crossing  the 
meadows  beyond  the  Chapel,  came  round  to  the  gate-house  at  the 
front.  He,  however,  never  reached  the  gate,  and  being  found 
at  home^he  next  day,  and  cj[uestioned  as  to  where  he  passed  the 
night,  he  was  at  first  evasive  in  his  replies,  but  on  being  pressed, 
told  a  mysterious  story  of  strange  lights  and  shapes  of  men  he 
had  seen  about  the  Priory ;  and  approaching — he  said — fearfully 
along  the  path,  there,  sure  enough  !  were  the  old  monks  passing 
up  in  procession  from  the  graveyard  through  the  wall  into  the 
Chapel,  as  through  a  door ;  and  he  heard  the  long-remembered 
chanting  of  the  mass,  and  saw  the  tapers  shining  through  the 
east  window,  as  he  had  seen  them  when  a  little  boy. 

This  manner  of  life  went  on  for  about  a  year,  at  the  end  of 
which  time  Father  St.  Clare's  absences  became  more  frequent, 
and  Johnny  was  left  much  alone.  The  Father's  mission  in  the 
west  of  England  was  not  prospering,  for  the  very  simple  reason 
that  he  was  too  good  for  the  work.  As  far  as  the  duties  of  a 
Superior  went,  everything  was  satisfactory.  The  country  was 
majDped  out  in  districts,  and  emissaries  were  appointed  to  each ; 
but  for  the  peculiar  mission  of  Father  St.  Clare — that  of  per- 
sonal influence — there  was  no  scope.  It  was  the  habit  of  the 
Jesuits,  by  the  charms  of  their  conversation  and  learning,  by  their 
philosophical  theories,  and  in  some  cases  by  their  original  systems 
of  science,  to  gain  the  confidence  and  intimacy  of  the  highest  both 
in  station  and  intellect,  and  for  this  seed  to  spiing  up,  there 
must  be  fii'st  a  suitable  soil  for  it  to  be  sown  in,  and  this  soil 
was  particularly  scarce  in  Wiltshire.  All  the  refinement  and 
learning  of  Father  St.  Clare  was  thrown  away  upon  the  country 
squires ;  any  boon  companion  would  have  influenced  them  c^uite 
as  well.  Becoming  conscious  of  this,  the  Jesuit  rode  frequently 
to  London,  where  work  which  required  the  highest  skill  and 
talent  was  going  on ;  and  in  his  absence  Johnny  was  left  veiy 
much  to  his  own  devices.  During  one  of  these  absences  a  priest 
who  had  remained  concealed  several  days  at  -the  Priory,  and 
who  had  taken  a  fancy  to  the  boy,  gave  him,  at  parting,  a  little 
book,  telling  him  to  read  it  carefully,  and  it  woidd  be  of  use  to  him 
through  life.     It  was  entitled  "The  Flaming  Heart,  or  the  Life  of 


CHAP.  III.]  A  ROMANCE.  35 

St  Theresa,"  of  whicli  a  later  edUion,  printed  in  1642,  was  dedi- 
cated to  Henrietta  Maria.  It  opened  a  new  world  of  thought  to 
Johnny,  who  was  r.ow  sixteen  years  of  age,  and  he  read  it  many 
times  from  beginning  to  end.  A  great  deal  of  it  was  so  strange 
to  Inglesant,  that  he  was  repelled  by  it.  The  exaggeration  of 
the  duty  of  self-denial,  the  grotesque  humility,  the  self-denun- 
elation  for  the  most  trifling  faults,  most  of  the  details  indeed 
appeared  to  him  either  absurd  or  untrue ;  but,  running  through 
all  the  book,  the  gi-eat  doctrine  of  Divine  Illumination  fascinated 
him.  The  sublime  but  mysterious  way  of  devotion  pointed  out 
in  it,  while  quite  different  from  anything  he  had  previously 
heard  of,  was  still  sufficiently  in  accordance  with  the  romantic 
habit  of  his  mind,  and  with  the  mystic  philosophy  in  which  his 
old  master  had  trained  him,  to  cause  him  to  follow  it  with  an 
eager  sympathy.  The  natui-al  and  inspired  writings  of  the 
great  mystics,  indeed,  breathe  a  celestial  purity,  entirely  distinct 
from  those  of  their  inferior  disciples,  who  brought  down  their 
spiritual  system  to  earth  and  earthly  piu-poses.  The  rest  from 
individual  eftbrt,  the  calm  after  long  striving,  the  secret  iov  in_ 
God,  the  acquiescing  in  His  will,  in  which  the  true  elevation  o£_ 
devotion  lies,  and  which  is  not  the  effect  of  lively  imaginations^ 
or  offruitful  inventiong — of  these,  all  men  are  not  capable,  but 
all  may  reach  the  silent  and  humble  adoration  of  God  which 
arises  out  of  a  pure  and  cpiiet  mind ;  just  as  when  a  man  enters 
into  an  entire  friendship  with  another,  then  the  single  thought 
of  his  friend  affects  him  more  tenderly  than  all  that  variety  of 
reflections  which  may  arise  in  his  mind  where  this  miion  is  not' 
felt.  This  inward  calm  and  quiet  in  which  men  may  in  silence 
form  acts  of  faith  and  feel  those  inward  motions  and  directions 
which,  as  this  book  taught,  follow  all  those  who  rise  up  to  this 
elevation,  and  wliich  lead  them  onward  through  the  devious 
paths  of  this  life,  what  must  this  be  but  the  Divine  Light  of  which 
his  old  master  had  so  often  told  him  he  was  ignorant,  but  whose 
certain  coming  he  had  led  him  constantly  to  expect  ?  Enticed 
by  such  thoughts  as  these,  he  passed  the  days,  hardly  knowing 
what  he  did ;  and  wandered  in  this  peri^lexed  lab^Tinth  without 
a  guide.  Without  a  guide  !  but  this  book  of  his  told  him  of  a 
guide — a  spiritual  guide — nay,  even  recommended  obedience 
and  entire  submission  to  this  director ;  and  dissuaded  from  self- 
confidence.  Where,  then,  was  this  guide,  to  whom,  in  the  midst 
of  such  spiritual  light  and  life,  and  after  such  ecstatic  visions, 


S$  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [chap.  m. 

he  should  turn  ?  The  book  said  it  was  the  priest — auy  priest 
would  do — but  still  it  was  the  priest.  This  seemed  to  John 
Inglesant,  whose  perceptions  the  Jesuit  had  sharpened,  but 
whose  unrestrained  romance  he  had  not  crushed,  to  be  very 
different  from  that  Divine  Light  of  which  his  master  spoke,  from 
that  transcendental  voice  of  the  Platonic  Reason  speaking  in  the 
silence  of  the  soul ;  nay,  it  seemed  to  him  to  be  a  fall  even 
from  the  teaching  of  the  book  itself.  Meditating  on  these  things, 
Johnny  thought  he  would  visit  his  old  master,  to  see  what  he 
had  to  say  about  this  new  doctrine. 

It  was  a  fine  summer  morning  when  he  m.ade  the  visit ;  he 
had  a  horse  of  his  own  now,  and  a  servant  if  he  chose,  but  he 
j^referred  to-day  to  go  alone.  He  found  Mr.  had  discon- 
tinued his  school,  and  was  entirely  buried  in  his  books ;  only 
reading  morning  and  evening  prayers,  and  a  homily  or  one  of 
his  old  sermons  in  the  Church  on  Sundays.  He  never  left 
his  study  on  other  days,  except  for  a  turn  in  his  little  garden. 
His  house  was  by  the  wayside,  with  a  small  paved  court  before 
the  hall ;  and  by  the  side  of  this  court,  the  garden,  into  which 
the  window  of  the  study,  in  a  gabled  wing  adjoining  the  hall, 
looked  towards  the  road.  He  was  pleased  to  see  Inglesant, 
though  he  very  dimly  remembered  him,  and  questioned  him  of 
his  studies.  Johnny  read  him  some  Plato  with  the-  Jesuit's 
comments,  of  which  the  old  gentleman  took  notes  eagerly,  and 
afterwards  incorporated  them  in  his  book.  The  book  he  was 
writing  was  upon  Talismanic  figures,  but  he  was  not  particular 
what  he  put  into  it,  anything  of  an  occult  and  romantic 
character  being  welcome,  and  introduced  with  not  a  little  in- 
genuity. He  had  no  sense  nor  understanding  of  anything  else 
in  the  world  but  such  subjects  and  his  books ;  and  being 
exceedingly  infirm,  he  could  scarcely  lift  some  of  the  larger 
folios  which  lay  heaped  about  him  within  reach.  He  blessed 
God  that  his  eyesight  was  so  good,  and  that  he  could  still  read 
Greek — the  contracted  Greek  type  of  that  day.  After  some 
conversation,  Inglesant  opened  his  mind  to  him,  told  him  what 
he  had  been  reading,  and  asked  his  opinion.  The  old  scholar 
pricked  up  his  ears,  and  set  to  work  with  great  delight,  taking 
notes  all  the  time ;  and  Johnny  found,  years  afterwards,  when 
he  liappened  to  read  his  book  in  London,  that  all  he  told  him 
was  introduced  into  it. 

"I  find  nothing,  my  dear  pupil,"  he  said,  "in  the  Christian 


CHAP.  III.]  A  ROMANCE.  37 

Chiu-ch,  very  old,  concerning  this  doctrine  —  for  that  author 
who  goes  by  the  name  of  Dionysius  the  Areopagite  is  of  far 
later  date — But  I  will  discover  to  you  some  mysteries  concern- 
ing it,  which,  so  far  as  I  know,  have  never  been  brought  to 
light  by  any  man.  I  find  the  germ  of  this  doctrine  in  those 
fragments  of  metaphysics  which  go  under  Theophrastus  his 
name ;  who  was  a  disciple  of  Aristotle,  and  succeeded  him  in 
his  school ;  and  was  an  excellent  jDhilosopher  certainly,  by  the 
works  by  him  which  remain  to  this  day.  Here  he  says  that 
the  understanding  joined  to  the  body,  can  do  nothing  without 
the  senses,  which  help  it  as  far  as  they  can  to  distinguish 
sensible  things  from  their  first  causes,  but  that  all  knowledge 
and  contemplation  of  the  fii'st  causes,  must  be  by  very  touching 
and  feeling  of  the  mind  and  soul ;  which  knowledge,  thus  gained, 
is  not  liable  to  error,  SynesiiLS,  a  man  well  known  amongst 
scholars,  being  vexed  that  this  new  divinity  began  in  his  day 
to  be  in  request  amongst  Christians ;  and  some  illiterate  monks 
and  others  taking  advantage  of  it  to  magnify  ignorance,  to  bring 
themselves  into  repute ; — Synesius,  I  say,  wrote  that  exquisite 
treatise  which  he  inscribed  'Dio,'  to  prove  the  necessity  of 
human  'learning  and  philosophy  to  all  who  will  contemplate 
high  things  with  sobriety  and  good  success.  *  God  forbid,'  he 
says,  '  that  we  should  think  that  if  God  dwell  in  us.  He  should 
dwell  in  any  other  part  of  us  than  that  which  is  rational,  which 
is  His  own  proper  temple.' 

"  Now  whether  the  writings  of  some  ancient  and  later 
Platonists,  Greeks  and  Arabs,  Heathens  and  Mahometans,  be  a 
sufiicient  groimd  and  warrant  for  them  that  profess  to  ascribe 
more  to  the  Scriptures,  by  which  sobriety  of  sense  is  so  much 
commended  unto  us,  than  to  the  opinions  of  heathen  philo- 
sophers, I  leave  you  to  consider." 

Then  Inglesant  left  him,  for  he  seemed  more  desirous  to  put 
ideas  into  his  book  than  to  impart  them,  and  rode  home  across 
the  downs.  As  he  went,  he  overtook  a  gentleman  riding  an 
easy-going  palfrey,  whom  he  found  to  be  one  whom  he  knew  ; 
one,  indeed,  of  those  who  had  attended  the  early  morning  mass 
in  the  Chapel.  This  gentleman,  who  was  one  of  those  called 
Church  Papists,  that  is,  Papists  who  saved  themselves  from  the 
charge  of  recusancy  by  sometimes  attending  their  Parish  Church, 
knowing  Johnny,  and  placing  faith  in  him,  began  at  once  to 
relate  his  troubles.     Ee  dwelt  sadly  on  the  fines  he  had  to  pa^ 


38  JOHN  INGLES  ANT;  [chap.  Ill, 

and  bis  difficulties  in  avoiding  the  commimion  at  Easter ;  but . 
his  greatest  troubles  were "  caused  by  his  wife,  who  was  much 
more  zealous  than  he  was,  and  refused  to  go  to  Churcn  once  a 
month  to  keep  off  the  Churchwardens.  Her  religion,  indeed, 
was  so  costly  to  him,  that  he  had  rather  have  had  a  city  lady 
with  her  extravagant  dress.  He  was  very  particular  in  in- 
quiring after  Father  St.  Clare,  and  whether  Inglesant  knew  of 
anything  he  was  engaged  in ;  but  John  could  give  him  no 
information,  not  knowing  anything  of  the  Jesuit's  plans.  They 
were  hard  times,  he  said,  for  a  good  quiet  subject  who  wished 
to  live  at  peace  with  his  King  and  with  his  clergyman  ;  but 
what  with  the  fear  of  the  apparitor  on  one  hand,  and  of  his 
wife  and  her  advisers  among  the  Catholics  on  the  other — he 
had  a  hard  time  of  it.  He  was  a  cheerful  man  naturally,  how- 
ever, and  leaving  this  discourse,  which  he  thought  would  tire 
his  companion,  he  entertained  him  for  some  time  with  the  news 
of  the  country,  of  which  he  gathered  great  abundance  in  his 
rides.  Among  other  things,  he  told  him  of  a  clergyman  at  a 
parish  not  far  off,  wdio,  he  said,  must  be  a  Catholic  in  his  heart, 
for  his  piety  was  so  great  and  his  pimctuahty  in  reading  common 
prayer,  morning  and  evening,  in  the  Chiu-ch  alone  in  his  surplice 
so  regular,  that — so  the  common  report  ran — he  had  brought 
down  an  angel  from  heaven,  who  appeared  to  him  in  the  Church 
one  evening  in  the  glow  of  the  setting  sun,  and  told  him  many 
wonderfid  and  heavenly  things.  When  the  gentleman  had 
related  this,  they  came  to  the  point  where  their  roads  parted, 
and  he  invited  Johnny — for  he  was  very  courteous — to  come  on 
to  his  house,  and  sup  with  him.  To  this  Inglesant  consented, 
visits  being  a  rare  pleasure  to  him,  and  they  rode  together  to 
the  gentleman's  house,  which  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  downs, 
with  a  courtyard  and  gate-house  before  it,  and  at  the  back  a  fair 
hall  and  parlour,  having  a  wide  prospect  over  the  valley  and 
the  distant  view.  Johnny  was  com'teously  received  by  the 
popish  lady  and  her  sister,  who  was  devout  and  very  pretty. 
The  supper  would  have  been  very  plain — the  day  being  a  fast 
— but  the  gentleman  insisted  on  waiting  while  a  rabbit  was 
cooked  for  his  friend ;  and  when  it  came,  he  partook  of  it  him- 
self, in  spite  of  his  wife's  remonstrances — out  of  courtesy  to  his 
guest,  he  said,  and  also  to  enable  him  to  get  over  his  next  fine, 
which,  he  said,  it  ought  to  do.  The  ladies  asked  John  Ingle- 
sant many  questions  about  the  Father,  and  what  took  place  at 


CHAP.  III.]  A  RONANCE.  39 

the  Priory ;  also  alDout  his  brother  the  Page.  This  marie  hii» 
leave  early,  for  though  he  knew  nothing  of  any  plots  or  treason, 
he  was  constantly  afraid  of  saying  something  he  ought  not  to 
do ;  nothing  was  said,  however,  about  the  morning  mass,  which 
was  too  serious  a  matter  to  be  lightly  spoken  of. 

As  he  rode  away  through  the  soft  evening  light,  he  thought 
so  much  of  the  story  the  gentleman  had  told  him,  that  he  made 
up  his  mind  to  ride  to  the  village  and  see  the  clergyman  whose 
goodness  was  so  manifest  and  so  rewarded.  He,  surely — if  no 
one  else  could — would  show  him  the  true  path  of  Devotion. 

Two  or  three  days  afterwards  he  took  the  ride,  and  arrived 
at  the  small  old  Church  at  a  very  opportune  moment,  for  the 
clergyman  in  his  surplice  was  just  going  into  it  to  read  the 
evening  prayers.  Inglesaut  attended  devoutly,  being  the  only 
person  present;  for  the  sexton's  wife,  who  rang  the  bell,  did 
not  consider  that  her  duty  extended  farther.  Prayers  being 
over,  the  parson  invited  Johnny  to  sapper — a  much  better  one 
than  he  had  had  at  the  Papist's — and  Inglesant  stated  his 
difficulties  to  him,  and  asked  his  advice.  The  Parson  showed 
him  several  small  books  which  he  had  written ;  one  on  bowing 
and  taking  off  the  hat  at  the  name  of  Jesus ;  another  on  the 
cross  in  baptism,  and  kneeling  at  the  communion ;  a  third  on 
turning  to  the  east,  which  last  appeared  to  be  mostly  quotations 
and  enlargements  from  Dr.  Donne  ;  a  fourth  on  the  use  of  the 
surplice.  He  repudiated  being  popishly  inclined;  having  dis- 
proved, he  said,  that  any  of  these  practices  were  popish,  in  all 
his  books,  all  of  which,  as  far  as  Johnny  coidd  see,  displayed 
considerable  ingenuity  ;  and  while  he  inserted  many  trivial  and 
weak  passages,  he  seemed  to  have  been  well  read  in  the  Fathers 
and  other  old  authors,  and  to  have  been  a  loyal,  honest,  and 
zealous  advocate,  according  to  his  capacity,  of  the  Church  of 
England.  He  evidently  looked  on  forms  and  ceremonies  with 
the  greatest  reverence,  and  was  totally  incapable  of  telling  his 
visitor  anything  of  that  mystical  life  he  w^as  so  anxious  to  realize. 
Johnny  inquired  about  the  angel,  but  his  host,  while  not  appear- 
ing displeased  at  the  reports  being  spread  abroad,  professed  to 
deny  all  knowledge  of  it,  but  in  such  a  way  as  to  make  Inglesant 
think  he  would  hke  to  have  acknowledged  it, 'had  he  dared. 
He  rode  away  disappointed,  and  began  to  think  he  must  consult 
Father  St.  Clare ;  which,  for  some  reason  or  other,  he  had  felt 
%  disinclination  to  do. 


40  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [cHAP.  IH 

AVliile  he  was  in  this  perplexity,  he  bethought  himself  of 
his  first  schoolmaster,  the  man  who  taught  in  the  Church  where 
Camden  visited  him.  He  had  forgotten  all  about  this  man, 
except  that  he  was  of  a  mild  and  kind  nature ;  but  he  was  so 
anxious  for  direction  that  he  went  to  him  at  once.  This  man 
had  been  very  poor,  and  brought  up  a  large  family,  all  of  whom, 
however,  he  had  put  forward  in  life,  some  at  the  University  and 
the  Church,  and  some  among  the  clothiers  and  glove-makers  at 
Malmsbury  and  the  other  towns  of  Wiltshire.  Johnny  found 
him  living  alone — for  his  wife  was  dead — in  a  small  cottage  no 
better  than  a  countryman's,  with  a  few  books,  which  with  his 
garden  were  all  the  wealth  he  possessed.  He  was  a  great 
herbalist,  and  famous  in  the  country  for  his  ciu-es  and  for  his 
sermons,  though  no  two  people  could  agree  why  they  admired 
the  latter :  all  uniting  in  considering  him  a  simple  and  rather 
poor  preacher.  This  Inglesant  learnt  from  a  comitryman  who 
walked  at  his  horse's  side  as  he  came  near  the  village;  but 
when  he  found  the  old  gentleman  sitting  on  a  bench  before  his 
study  window,  and  he  rose  and  met  his  look,  Inglesant  saw  at 
once — -thanks  to  the  cultivation  of  his  perception  by  the  Jesuit's 
teaching — what  it  was  that  gained  him  the  people's  love.  He 
had  large  and  melting  eyes  that  looked  straight  into  the  hearts 
of  those  who  met  him,  as  though  eager  to  help  them  and  do 
them  good.  He  received  Johmiy  with  great  kindness,  though 
he  had  quite  forgotten  him,  and  did  not  even  remember  when 
he  told  him  who  he  was.  But  when  Inglesant,  who  found  it 
very  easy  to  speak  to  him  of  what  had  brought  him  there,  told 
him  of  his  difficulties,  he  listened  with  the  greatest  interest  and 
sympathy.  When  he  had  finished  speaking,  he  remained  some 
minutes  silent,  looking  across  the  garden  where  the  hot  mid- 
day air  was  playing  above  the  flowers. 

*'  You  have  been  sj^eaking,"  he  said  at  length,  "  of  very  high 
and  wonderful  things,  into  which,  it  would  seem,  even  the*angels 
dare  not  look ;  for  we  are,  as  would  appear,  taught  in  Scripture 
that  it  is  in  man's  history  that  they  see  the  workings  of  Divine 
Glory.  And  indeed,  worthy  Mr.  Inglesant,  when  you  have 
lived  to  the  limit  of  my  many  years,  you  will  not  stumble  at 
this ;  nor  think  this  life  a  low  and  poor  place  in  which  to  seek 
the  Divine  Master  walking  to  and  fro.  These  high  matters  of 
which  you  speak,  and  this  heavenly  life,  is  not  to  be  disbelieved, 
only  it  seems  to  me — more  and  more — that  the  soul  or  spirit  of 


CHAP,  in,]  A  ROMANCK  41 

every  man  in  jjassing  through  life  among  familiar  things  ia 
among  supernatm-al  things  always,  and  many  things  seem  to 
me  miraculous  which  men  think  nothing  of,  such  as  memory, 
by  which  we  live  again  in  place  and  time — and  of  which,  if  I 
remember  rightly,  for  I  am  a  very  poor  scholar,  you  doubtless 
know,  St.  Augustine  says  many  pertinent  things — and  the  love 
of  one  another,  by  which  we  are  led  out  of  ourselves,  and  made 
to  act  against  oiu-  own  nature  by  that  of  another,  or,  rather,  by 
a  higher  natiure  than  that  of  any  of  us ;  and  a  thousand  fancies 
and  feelings  which  have  no  adequate  cause  among  outward 
things.  Here,  in  this  book  which  I  was  reading  when  you  so 
kindly  came  to  see  me,  are  withered  flowers,  which  I  have 
gathered  in  my  rambles,  and  keep  as  friends  and  companions  of 
pleasant  places,  streams  and  meadows,  and  of  some  who  have 
been  with  me,  and  now  are  not.  There  is  one,  this  single  j'cllow 
flower — it  is  a  tormentilla,  which  is  good  against  the  plague — 
what  is  it,  that,  as  I  hold  it,  makes  me  think  of  it  as  I  do? 
Faded  flowers  have  something,  to  me,  miraculous  and  super- 
natm-al  about  them :  though,  in  fact,  it  is  nothing  wonderfid 
that  the  textiu-e  of  a  flower  being  dried  sm^vives.  It  is  not  in 
the  flower,  but  in  oiu*  immortal, spirit  that  the  miracle  is.  All 
these  delightful  thoughts  that  come  into  my  mind  when  I  look 
at  this  flower — thoughts,  and  fancies,  and  memories — what  are 
they  but  the  result  of  the  alchemy  of  the  immortal  spirit,  which 
takes  all  the  pleasant,  fragile  things  of  life,  and  transmutes  them 
into  immortality  in  oiu"  own  nature  !  And  if  the  poor  spirit  and 
intellect  of  man  can  do  this,  how  much  more  may  the  supreme 
creative  intellect  mould  and  form  all  things,  and  bring  the  pre- 
sence of  the  supernatural  face  to  face  with  us  in  our  daily  walk  ! 
Earth  becomes  to  us,  if  we  thus  think,  nothing  but  the  garden 
of  the  Lord,  and  every  fellow-being  we  meet  and  see  in  it,  a 
beautiful  and  invited  guest ;  and,  as  I  think  I  remember,  many 
of  the  heathen  poets,  after  their  manner,  have  said  very  fine 
things  about  this ;  that  we  should  rise  cheerfully  from  this  life, 
as  a  gtateful  guest  rises  from  an  abundant  feast ;  and  though 
doubtless  they  were  very  dark  and  mistaken,  yet  I  confess  they 
always  seemed  to  me  to  have  something  of  a  close  and  entire 
fellowship  with  the  wants  of  men,  which  I  think  the  Savioiu* 
would  have  approved.  If  you,  sir,  can  receive  this  mystery, 
and  go  through  the  honoiu-able  path  of  Hfe  which  hes  before 
you,  looking  upon  yourself  as  an  immortal,  spirit  walking  among 


42  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [chap.  III. 

supernatural  things — for  the  natiu-al  things  of  this  life  would  be 
nothing  were  they  not  moved  and  animated  by  the  efficacy  of 
that  which  is  above  natiu-e — I  think  you  may  find  this  doctrine 
a  light  which  will  guide  your  feet  in  dark  places ;  and  it  would 
seem,  unless  I  am  mistaken,  that  this  habit  of  mind  is  very 
likely  to  lead  to  the  blessedness  of  the  Beatific  Vision  of  God, 
on  the  quest  of  which  you  have  happily  entered  so  young ;  for 
sm-ely  it  should  lead  to  that  state  to  which  this  vision  is  pro- 
mised— the  state  of  those  who  are  Pm^e  in  Heart.  For  if  it  be 
true,  that  the  reason  we  see  not  God  is  the  grossness  of  this 
tabernacle  wherein  the  soid  is  incased,  then  the  more  and  the 
oftener  we  recognize  the  supernatural  in  our  ordinary  life,  and 
not  only  expect  and  find  it  in  those  rare  and  short  moments  of 
devotion  and  prayer,  the  more,  surely,  the  rays  of  the  Divine 
Light  will  shine  through  the  dark  glass  of  this  outward  form  of 
life,  and  the  more  our  own  spirit  will  be  enlightened  and  purified 
by  it,  until  we  come  to  that  likeness  to  the  Divine  Natm-e,  and 
that  piuity  of  heart  to  which  a  share  of  the  Beatific  Vision  is 
promised,  and  which,  as  some  teach,  can  be  attained  by  being 
abstract  from  the  body  and  the  bodily  life.  As  we  see  every 
day  that  the  supernatural  in  some  men  gives  a  particular  bright- 
ness of  air  to  the  coimtenanco,  and  makes  the  face  to  shine 
with  an  inimitable  lustre,  and  if  it  be  true  that  in  the  life  to 
come  we  shall  have  to  see  through  a  body  and  a  glass  however 
transparent,  we  may  well  practise  our  eyes  by  making  this  life 
spiritual,  as  we  shall  have  also  to  strive  to  do  in  that  to  which 
we  go.  My  predecessor  in  this  living,  doubtless  a  very  worthy 
man  (for  I  knew  him  not),  has  left  it  recorded  on  his  tombstone 
— as  I  will  show  you  if  you  will  come  into  the  Chiu-ch — that  he 
was  *  fidl  of  cares  and  full  of  years,  of  neither  weary,  but  full  of 
hope  and  of  heaven.'  I  should  desire  that  it  may  be  faithfully 
recorded  of  me  that  I  was  the  same  !" 

John  went  with  him  into  the  Church,  and  read  the  old 
vicar's  epitaph  and  several  more — for  he  was  very  much  taken 
with  the  old  gentleman's  talk,  and  indeed  stayed  -wdth  him  the 
whole  day :  his  host  adding  a  dish  of  eggs  and  a  glass  of  small 
beer  to  his  daily  very  fiiigal  meal.  Johnny  invited  him  to  come 
to  the  Priory,  and  so  left  him,  more  pleased  and  satisfied  with 
this  than  with  any  of  his  other  visits.  As  he  rode  back  through 
the  darkening  valley,  and  through  the  oak  wood  before  the 
Priory  gate,  he  little  thought  that  not  only  should  he  not  see 


CHAP.  III.]  A  ROMANCE.  43 

the  old  Parson  again,  but  that  his  quiet  contemplative  life  was 
come  to  an  end,  and  his  speculations  would  now  be  chased  away 
by  a  life  of  action ;  and  for  the  future  the  decision,  often  to  be 
made  at  once,  as  to  what  he  ought  to  do,  would  appear  of  more 
consequence  than  that  other  decision,  which  had  seemed  to  him, 
sometimes,  the  only  important  one,  as  to  what  it  was  right  to 
think. 

When  he  reached  the  Priory,  he  found  the  Jesuit  had  returned, 
and  when  at  supper  he  inquired  of  Johnny  if  his  ride  had  been 
a  pleasant  one,  as  the  servant  had  told  him  he  had  been  out 
since  the  morning,  Johnny  began  at  once  and  told  him  all  that 
had  been  passing  in  his  mind  since  the  priest  had  given  him 
the  book,  and  of  all  the  directors  he  had  sought  for  his  guid- 
ance. Father  St.  Clare  listened  (though  it  may  be  doubted 
whether  the  recital  was  altogether  agreeable  to  him)  with  great 
attention,  and  seemed  pleased  and  amused  at  the  boy's  descrip- 
tions, which  showed  his  pupil's  fine  perception  of  character. 

"You  have  taken  a  wise  course,"  he  said,  "which  has  led 
you  to  see  much  of  the  workings  of  the  minds  of  men  :  this  is 
the  most  useful  study  you  can  follow,  and  the  most  harmless  to 
yoiu-self,  if  you  keep  yoiu*  own  counsel,  and  gain  knowledge 
without  imparting  it.  I  am  glad  you  have  told  me  all  this, 
because  it  shows  me  I  have  not  been  deceived  in  you,  but  that 
the  time  is  fidly  ripe  for  you  to  play  the  part  yoiu-  father  and  I 
have  destined  for  you,  and  to  play  it — to  great  extent — alone. 
The  day  after  to-morrow  we  shall  go  up  to  London ;  on  the 
way,  I  will  open  to  you  the  position  of  parties,  the  crisis  of 
affairs — a  position  and  a  crisis  such  as  never  was  before  in  this 
or  any  other  country  !  You  are  very  young,  but  you  are  years 
older  in  mind  than  most  of  your  age,  and  yoiu-  youth  renders 
you  all  the  more  fit  for  the  work  I  have  for  you  to  do.  I  trust 
you  without  reserve ;  I  shall  commit  to  your  keeping  secrets 
which  would,  if  revealed,  bring  the  highest  heads  in  England, 
not  to  speak  of  my  own,  to  the  block.     I  have  no  fear  of  you." 

Inglesant  listened  breathlessly  and  with  open  eyes  to  this 
address.  It  made  his  heart  beat  high  with  delight  and  excite- 
ment. Death — nay,  the  bitterest  tortiu-e — would  be  nothing 
to  him,  if  only  he  could  win  this  man's  approval,  and  be  not 
only  true  but  successful  in  his  trust.  His  entire  devotion  to 
the  Jesuit  cannot  be  looked  upon  as  anything  \^onderful,  for 
the  whole  mental  power  of  the  latter,  directed  by  the  nicest  art 


44  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [cHAF.  IT. 

— a  power  and  an  art  at  that  time  not  surpassed  in  Europe — 
had  been  directed  to  this  end  upon  the  boy's  susceptible  nature^ 
and  the  residt  could  not  be  doubtful. 

The  Jesuit  might  well  say  that  the  crisis  was  imminent, 
and  the  position  of  affairs  peculiar.  Plotters  were  at  work  in 
all  directions,  and  for  different  ends;  but  the  schemes  of  all 
miscarried,  and  the  expectations  of  all  proved  to  be  miscalcula- 
tions :  those  of  the  Koman  Catholics — with  whom  St.  Clare 
was  associated — more  than  all.  Their  expectations  were  at  the 
highest  pitch.  The  Court  influence  was  with  them  to  a  large 
extent.  The  Church  of  England  was  at  its  highest  summit  of 
glory  and  power,  and  its  standing-point  was  almqst  their  own. 
Laud  was  partly  gained.  He  had  refused  a  Cardinal's  hat ;  but 
in  such  a  way  that  the  offer  was  immediately  renewed,  and 
remained  open.  It  seemed,  indeed,  as  though  little  more 
remained  to  do  when  this  goodly  edifice  began  to  crumble, 
slowly,  indeed,  but  surely,  and  with  accelerating  speed.  A  new 
power  appeared  in  the  country ;  hostile,  indeed,  to  Catholicism, 
but,  what  was  much  worse,  also  slightly  contemptuous  of  it, 
directing  its  full  force  against  the  Chiu-ch  and  the  Crown. 
The  Church  collapsed  with  wonderful  suddenness;  and  the 
Crown  was  compelled  to  seek  its  own  preservation,  extending 
what  little  aid  it  might  be  able  to  render  to  the  Chm^ch ;  neither 
had  the  least  power  or  time  to  give  to  the  assistance  of  their 
former  allies.  All  this  had  not  happened  when  the  Jesuit  and 
Johnny  rode  up  to  London,  but  it  was  foreshadowed  clearly  in 
the  immediate  future. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

Father  St.  Clare  and  Johnny  set  out  the  next  day,  accom- 
panied by  two  servants  on  horseback.  The  road  was  quite 
new  to  Inglesant  after  they  left  Malmsbnry ;  and  he  was  greatly 
delighted  and  amused  with  all  he  saw.  The  fair  landscapes, 
the  prospects  of  goodly  cities  with  the  towers  and  spires  of  their 
Churches  rising  into  the  clear  smokeless  air ;  the  stately  houses 
and  gardens,  the  life  of  the  country  viUages,  the  fairs  and  markets, 
strolling  players,  the  morris  dancing,  the  drinking  and  smoking 
parties,  the  conjurors  and  mountebanks,  peasants  quarrelling 


CHAP.  IV.]  ,  A  ROMANCE.  45 

"together  by  the  ears,"  and  buying  and  selling;  wandering 
beggars,  and  half-witted  people  called  *'Tom  o'  Bedlams"  who 
were  a  recognized  order  of  mendicants — everything  amused  and 
delighted  him,  especially  with  his  companion's  witty  and  pene- 
trating comments  upon  all  they  met  with. 

At  Windsor  they  walked  on  the  terrace,  from  which  Johnny 
saw  the  view,  which  was  then  considered  only  second  to  that  of 
Greenwich,  of  the  river  and  many  pleasant  hills  and  valleys, 
villages  and  fair  houses,  far  and  near.  As  they  rode  along,  at 
every  suitable  opportunity,  and  at  night  after  supper  at  the 
inns,  the  Jesuit  explained  to  Johnny  the  position  of  public 
affairs.  He  told  him  that  though  the  power  of  the  King  and 
the  Archbishop  was  apparently  at  its  greatest  height,  as  the 
trial  and  condemnation  of  Laud's  traducers,  Prynne,  Baswick, 
and  Burton,  had  just  been  decided,  and  the  trial  of  Hampden 
for  refusal  to  pay  ship -money  was  about  to  commence,  yet 
nevertheless,  the  impossibility  of  governing  ^vithout  a  Parliament 
was  becoming  so  evident,  and  the  violent  and  aggressive  temper 
of  the  people  was  so  marked,  that  he,  and  those  like  him,  who 
possessed  the  best  information  of  what  was  passing  throughout 
all  classes,  and  among  all  parties,  however  secret,  considered 
that  changes  of  a  very  remarkable  character  were  imminent. 
The  temper  of  the  people,  he  said,  was  the  more  remarkable, 
because  in  the  one  case,  libellers  like  Prynne  would  have  been 
put  to  death  without  mercy  in  either  of  the  preceding  reigns, 
and  no  notice  taken  by  the  people ;  and  the  tax,  called  ship's 
money,  was  so  light  and  so  fairly  levied,  as  to  be  scarcely  felt. 
The  Archbishop,  he  said,  was  determined  to  force  the  service 
book  upon  the  Scots ;  a  most  unwise  and  perilous  proceeding 
at  the  present  moment,  and  he  was  informed  by  the  emissary 
priests  then  in  the  north  of  England  and  Scotland,  that  the 
resistance  to  it  would  be  determined,  and  that  the  Scottish 
malcontents  were  supported  by  the  Puritan  party  in  the  English 
Parliament.  Under  these  circumstances,  he  explained  to  Johnny 
that  a  change  had  taken  place  in  the  policy  of  some  of  the 
Roman  Catholic  party,  who  had  formerly  acted  with  Mr.  Ingle- 
sant  and  Father  St.  Clare,  and  they  had  arrived  at  the  conclu- 
sion that  the  Church  of  England  was  no  longer  worth  the  pains 
of  humouring  and  conciliating.  The  Queen  had  been  advised 
to  attempt  the  perversion  of  the  Parliamentary  leaders,  and 
several  of  the  Catholic  plotters  had  undertaken  a  similar  enter« 


46  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [cHAP.  Pf. 

prise.  Father  St  Clare  told  Johnny  candidly  that  he  had 
neither  sympathized  entirely  with  these  views  nor  altogether 
with  tliose  of  the  party  to  which  he  had  hitherto  belonged. 
On  the  one  hand,  lie  had  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  Laud 
was  a  true  servant  of  the  Church  of  England,  and  would  nevei 
consent  to  submission  to  Rome,  except  on  terms  which  could 
not  be  granted,  but  on  the  other,  he  had  so  long  regarded  the 
Church  as  the  natural  ally  of  Rome,  and  the  uselessness  of 
attempting  to  win  over  the  Puritans  was  so  apparent,  that  he 
had  not  entered  warmly  into  these  new  schemes.  He,  however, 
was  inclined  to  think  that  were  a  change  to  take  place,  and  the 
Puritan  party  to  gain  the  supreme  power  in  the  State,  the 
reaction  among  the  upper  classes  would  be  so  great,  that  the 
Romish  faith  would  gain  numberless  converts.  He  finally 
pressed  upon  Johnny  the  necessity  of  great  prudence,  telling 
him  that  he  should  be  immediately  plac^ed  about  the  person  of 
the  Queen  as  one  of  her  pages ;  and,  as  soon  as  possible,  trans- 
ferred to  the  King's  service  in  as  high  a  post  as  the  influence  to 
be  exerted  could  command,  in  order  that  he  should  possess  as 
much  influence  as  possible :  that  in  the  meantime  his  business 
woidd  be  simply  to  become  acquainted  with  as  many  of  all 
parties  as  he  possibly  could,  and  to  gain  their  confidence,  oppor- 
tunities for  doing  which  should  be  given  him  both  in  the  assem- 
blies he  would  meet  at  his  fixther's  house,  and  in  other  company 
into  which  he  should  be  introduced.  He  warned  him  against 
crediting  anything  he  heard,  unless  assured  of  its  truth  by 
himself — the  most  exaggerated  reports  upon  every  subject,  he 
said,  prevailing  in  the  Court  and  city.  The  conversions  to 
Romanism,  he  told  him,  though  numerous,  were  nothing  like 
so  many  as  were  reported,  as  might  be  supposed  when  the 
reputed  ones  included  such  men  as  Mr.  Endymion  Porter,  the 
most  fixithful  servant  of  the  King  and  a  firm  Church  of  England 
man,  though,  like  many  others,  entertaining  very  friendly 
opinions  of  the  Papists. 

Conversing  in  this  way,  they  entered  London  one  afternoon 
at  the  beginning  of  August  1637.  Johnny,  as  may  be  supposed, 
was  all  eyes  as  they  entered  London,  which  they  did  by  Ken- 
sington and  St.  James's  Park.  The  beautiful  buildings  at 
Kensington,  and  the  throng  of  gentry  and  carriages  in  the  park 
astonished  him  beyond  measure.  As  they  passed  through  the 
park  many  persons  recognized  Father  St.  Clare,  but  they  passed 


CHAP.  IV.]  A  ROMANCE.  47 

on  without  stopping,  through  the  gateway  by  the  side  of  the 

beautiful  banqueting-house  into  the  narrow  street  that  led  by 
Charing  Cross  and  the  Strand.  The  crowds  were  now  of  a 
different  kind  from  those  they  had  passed  in  the  park.  They 
passed  several  groups  assembled  round  quack  doctors  and 
itinerant  speakers,  one  of  whom  was  relating  how  the  congrega- 
tion of  a  Parish  Church  the  Sunday  before  had  been  alarmed 
by  an  insurrection  of  armed  Papists — stories  of  this  kind  being 
then  a  common  invention  to  excite  and  stir  up  the  people.  At 
one  of  these  gi'oups  they  were  startled  by  hearing  a  man  who 
was  selling  books,  announce  the  name  as  "Jesus'  Worship 
Confuted;"  as  the  thing  was  new  to  the  Jesuit,  he  stopped 
and  ordered  one  of  his  men  to  dismount  and  bring  him  one, 
when  it  was  foimd  to  be  a  tract  against  ceremonies,  and 
especially  against  bowing  at  the  name  of  Jesus.  They  resumed, 
their  passage  down  the  Strand,  Father  St.  Clare  remarking  on 
the  strange  ideas  a  stranger  would  attach  to  the  state  of  religion 
in  England  if  he  listened  only  to  the  opposing  cries.  All  down 
the  Strand  the  Jesuit  pointed  out  the  beautiful  houses  of  the 
nobility,  and  the  glimpses  of  the  river  between  them.  Th€y 
stopped  at  last  at  Somerset  House,  then  a  large  rambling  series 
of  buildings  extending  round  several  courts  with  gai\  ens  and 
walks  on  the  river  banks,  and  a  handsome  water-gate  leading 
to  the  river.  They  went  to  the  lodgings  of  Father  Cory,  the 
Queen's  confessor,  who  was  at  home,  and  received  them  hospit- 
ably. Johnny  was  so  taken  up  with  all  the  astonishing  sights 
around  him,  especially  with  the  wonderful  view  up  and  down 
the  river,  with  the  innumerable  boats  and  barges,  the  palaces 
and  gardens,  and  churches  and  steeples  on  the  banks,  that  it 
was  a  day  or  two  before  he  could  talk  or  think  calmly  of  any- 
thing. The  next  morning  the  Jesuit  took  him  to  his  father's 
house  on  the  north  side  of  the  Strand,  where  he  saw  both  his 
father  and  brother,  it  not  being  the  latter's  turn  in  waiting  at 
the  Court.  Mr.  Inglesant  was  not  more  affectionate  to  his  son 
than  usual ;  he  appeared  anxious  and  worn,  but  he  told  him  he 
was  pleased  at  his  arrival,  that  he  must  obey  Father  St.  Clare 
in  all  things,  and  that  he  would  become  a  useful  and  successful 
man.  Father  St.  Clare  had  sent  for  a  Court  tailor,  and  ordered 
a  proper  dress  and  accoutrements  for  Johnny,  who  was  astonished 
at  his  own  appearance  when  attired  in  lace  and  satin,  and  his 
long  hair  combed  and  dressed.     The  Jesuit  regarded  him  with 


48  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [cHAP.  IT. 

satisfaction,  and  told  him  they  were  going  at  once  to  the  Queen. 
Mr.  Iiiglesant's  coach  was  sent  for  them,  and  was  waiting  in  one 
of  the  courts;  and  entering,  they  were  driven  through  the  Strand 
to  Whitehall. 

It  was  the  third  of  August,  and  the  Archbishop  was  marr}^- 
ing  the  Duke  of  Lennox  to  the  Lady  Mary  Villiers,  the  daughter 
of  the  great  Duke  of  Buckingham,  in  his  Chapel  at  Lambeth. 
The  King  was  expected  to  go  to  Lambeth  to  be  present  at  the 
ceremony,  but  this  was  of  no  consequence  to  the  Jesuit,,  who 
wished  to  introduce  his  protdgd  to  the  Queen  alone.  When 
they  reached  Whitehall,  however,  they  found  that  both  their 
Majesties  had  gone  to  the  wedding,  and  the  day  being  very 
rainy,  news  had  been  sent  from  Lambeth  immediately  after  the 
ceremony  that  the  Queen  was  returning,  and  she  was  then  on 
the  water.  The  Jesuit  and  Johnny  left  their  carriage  and  went 
down  to  the  water-gate.  The  Jesuit  was  evidently  well  known 
at  the  Coiu-t,  and  way  was  made  for  him  everywhere.  At  that 
time  the  greatest  laxity  was  allowed  to  the  Catholics,  and  other 
priests  besides  the  Queen's  confessors  were  tolerated  openly  in 
London.  As  they  reached  the  water-gate,  the  rain  had  ceased 
for  a  time,  and  a  gleam  of  sunlight  shone  upon  the  river,  and 
rested  on  the  Queen's  barge  as  it  approached.  Johnny's  heart 
beat  with  excitement,  as  it  reached  the  steps  amid  a  flomish  of 
trumpets,  and  the  guard  presented  arms.  The  Queen,  splendidly 
di'essed,  came  from  under  the  awning  and  up  the  steps,  accom- 
panied by  her  gentlemen  and  the  ladies  of  her  Court.  Johnny 
never  forgot  the  sight  to  his  dying  day,  and  it  was  doubtless  one 
to  be  long  remembered  by  those  who  saw  it  for  the  first  time. 
When  the  Queen  was  near  the  top  of  the  stairs  and  saw  St, 
Clare,  she  stopped,  and  extending  her  hand  she  welcomed  him 
to  the  Court.  She  seemed  to  remember  something,  and  spoke 
to  him  rapidly  in  French,  to  which  he  replied  with  the  utmost 
deference,  in  the  same  langiiage.  Then  falling  back,  he  indi- 
cated Johnny  to  the  Queen,  saying — "  This  is  young  John  Ing?e* 
sant,  yom-  Majesty,  of  whom  I  spoke  to  your  Grace  concerning 
the  business  you  wot  of" 

The  Queen  looked  kindly  at  the  boy,  who  indeed  was  hand- 
Bome  enough  to  incline  any  woman  in  his  favoiu*. 

"  They  are  a  handsome  race,"  she  said,  still  speaking  French ; 
"  this  one,  I  think,  still  more  so  than  his  brother." 

"This  is  a  refined  spirit,  your  Majesty,"  said  the  Jesuit,  in 


CHAP.  IV.]  A  ROMANCE.  49 

a  low  voice,  "  of  whom  I  hope  great  things,  if  your  Llajesty  will 
aid." 

"  You  wish  to  be  one  of  my  servants,  my  pretty  boy,"  said 
the  Queen,  extending  her  hand  to  Johnny,  who  kissed  it  on  one 
knee ;  "  Father  Hall  will  tell  you  what  to  do." 

And  she  passed  on,  followed  by  her  train,  who  looked  at  St. 
Clare  and  the  boy  with  ciuriosity,  several  nodding  and  speaking 
to  the  Jesuit  as  they  proceeded. 

Johnny  was  duly  entered  the  next  day  as  one  of  the  super- 
numerary pages  without  salary,  and  entered  upon  his  duties  at 
once,  which  consisted  simply  of  waiting  in  anterooms  and  follow- 
iQg  the  Queen  at  a  distance  in  her  walks.  This  hfe,  however, 
was  beyond  measure  interesting  to  Johnny  :  the  beautiful  rooms 
and  galleries  in  the  palace,  with  their  wonderful  contents,  were 
an  inexhaustible  soiurce  of  delight  to  him  ;  especially  the  King's 
collection  of  paintings  which  was  kept  in  a  single  apartment, 
and  was  admired  over  Eiu-ope.  Father  Hall  took  him  also  to 
many  gentlemen's  virtuoso  collections  of  paintings  and  curiosities, 
where  his  intelligence  and  delight  attracted  the  interest  and 
kindness  of  all  his  hosts.  Father  St.  Clare  also  gave  him,  from 
time  to  time,  small  editions  of  the  classics  and  other  books 
which  he  could  keep  in  his  pocket,  and  read  in  the  anterooms 
and  galleries  when  he  was  in  waiting.  He  would  have  been 
astonished,  if  the  Jesuit  had  not  told  him  it  would  be  so,  at  the 
number  of  persons  of  all  ranks  and  opinions  in  the  Court,  who 
spoke  to  him  and  endeavoured  to  make  his  acquaintance  that 
they  might  remember  him  at  a  futm-e  time,  evidently  at  the 
request  of  the  priest. 

Shortly  after  he  came  to  London,  he  was  present  at  the 
Chapel  Koyal,  at  Whitehall,  when  the  King  took  the  sacrament 
and  presented  the  gold  pieces  coined  especially  for  this  purpose. 
The  sight  impressed  Johnny  very  much.  The  beautiful  Chapel, 
the  high  altar  on  which  candles  were  burning,  the  Bishops  and 
the  Dean  of  the  Chapel  in  their  copes,  the  brilliant  crowd  of 
courtiers,  the  King — devout  and  stately — alone  before  the  altar, 
the  exquisite  music,  and  the  singing  of  the  King's  choir,  which 
was  not  surpassed  in  Rome  itself.  As  the  sunlight  from  the 
stained  windows  fell  on  this  wonderful  scene,  it  is  not  surprising 
that  yomig  Inglesaut  was  affected  by  it,  nor  that  this  young 
spirit  looking  out  for  the  &st  time  on  the  world  and  its  siu-pris- 
ing  scenes,  and  pageants,  and  symbols,  realized  the  truth  0/ 

E 


50  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [CHAP.  IT 

what  the  old  Parson  had  told  him,  and  converted  all  these  sights 
into  spiritual  visions  ;  this  one  in  particular^  which  led  back  his 
thoughts,  as  it  was  meant,  to  the  three  kings  of  old,  who  knelt 
and  offered  gifts  before  the  mysterious  Child. 

Johnny  saw  his  brother  frequently,  as  the  latter  had  grcwn 
out  of  his  page-hood,  and  held  another  post  about  the  Court,  which 
gave  him  much  leisure.  The  two  young  courtiers  were  at  this 
time  more  alike  than  ever,  and  were  much  admired  at  Court 
as  a  pair.  At  one  of  the  Queen's  Masques,  about  this  time, 
they  acted  parts  somewhat  similar  to  the  brothers  in  Comus, 
but  requiring  greater  resemblance,  as  in  Shakespeare's  Comedy 
of  Errors,  and  both  their  acting  and  appearance  was  applauded 
by  the  King  himself,  who  began  to  take  notice  of  Johnny.  Mr. 
Inglesant,  the  elder,  had  never  been  a  favourite  with  the  King, 
who  was  aware  of  his  leaning  to  Popery,  and  indeed,  at  this 
time,  both  he  and  his  friend  the  Jesuit  were  very  much  dis- 
couraged at  the  aspect  of  affairs.  The  position  of  the  Papists 
had  never  been  so  good  as  at  present,  but  this  very  circumstance 
was  the  ruin  of  their  party.  All  restraints  and  reproaches  of 
former  times  seemed  forgotten ;  a  public  agent  from  Rome 
resided  openly  at  the  Court,  and  was  magnificently  feted  and 
caressed ;  the  priests,  though  to  avow  popish  orders  was  by  law 
pimishable  with  death,  went  about  and  preached  openly  without 
fear ;  and  it  was  related  as  a  sign  of  the  times,  that  a  Jesuit 
at  Paris  who  was  coming  into  England,  coolly  called  on  the 
English  ambassador  there,  who  knew  his  profession,  offering  his 
services  in  London,  as  though  there  were  no  penal  law  to  condemn 
him  the  moment  he  landed !  High  Mass  at  Somerset  House 
was  attended  at  noon-day  by  great  numbers  of  the  Papists,  who 
returned  together  from  it  through  the  streets  as  openly  as  the 
congregation  of  the  Savoy,  and  the  neighbouring  churches. 
Their  priests  succeeded  in  converting  several  ladies  of  some  of 
the  greatest  families,  thereby  provoking  the  anger  of  their  rela- 
tions^ and  causing  them  to  long  for  their  suppression.  They 
held  large  political  conferences  openly,  and  ostentatiously  sub- 
scribed a  large  sum  of  money  to  assist  the  King  against  the 
Scots.  Clarendon,  indeed,  says  that  they  acted  as  though  they 
had  been  suborned  by  these  latter  to  root  out  their  own  rehgion. 

It  would  seem,  indeed,  that  the  English  mind  is  not  habitu- 
ated to  plotting,  and  that  the  majority  of  any  party  are  not 
equal  to  a  sustained  and  concealed  effort.     The  Jesuit,  Mr, 


CHAP.  IV,]  A  ROIVIANCK  51 

Inglesant,  and  the  other  astute  members  of  their  party,  per- 
ceived with  sorrow  the  co^irse  things  were  taking  without  being 
able  to  remedy  it.  The  former  desisted  from  all  active  efforts, 
contenting  himself  with  assisting  the  Queen  in  her  attempts  to 
win  over  members  of  the  Parliament  to  her  interest,  and  in 
opposing  and  counteracting  the  intrigues  of  a  small  and  fanatical 
section  of  the  Papists  who  were  attempting  a  wild  and  insane 
plot  against  the  King  and  the  Archbishop,  which  was  said  to 
extend  to  even  the  attempting  their  death.  As  neither  of  these 
occupations  was  very  arduous,  he  had  little  need  of  Johnny's 
assistance,  and  left  him  v^y  much  to  liimself.  Inglesant,  there- 
fore, continued  the  cidtivation  of  his  acquaintance  with  both 
parties  pretty  much  in  his  own  way.  He  had  several  friends 
whose  society  he  much  valued  among  the  Papists,  and  he  fre- 
quently attended  mass  when  not  obliged  to  by  his  attendance 
upon  the  Queen;  but  he  was  rather  more  incHned  to  attach 
himself  to  the  members  of  the  Laudian  and  High  Church  party, 
who  presented  many  qualities  which  interested  and  attracted 
him.  He  read  with  delight  the  books  of  this  party,  Dr.  Donne's 
and  Herbert's  Poems,  and  the  writings  of  Andrews  and  Bishop 
Cosin's  Devotions,  which  last  was  much  disliked  by  the  Piuritans, 
and,  indeed,  the  course  he  took  could  not  have  been  more  in 
accordance  with  the  Jesuit's  plan  of  preparing  him  for  future 
service,  should  the  time  ever  arrive  when  such  usefulness  should 
be  required.  In  his  mind  he  was  still  devoted,  though  in  a 
baiting  and  imperfect  manner,  to  that  pm-suit  of  the  spiritual 
life  and  purity  wliich  had  attracted  him  when  so  yoimg,  and  he 
lost  no  opportunity  of  consulting  any  on  these  mysterious  sub- 
jects who  he  thought  would  sympathize  with  his  ideas.  In  this 
he  had  no  assistance  from  his  brother,  who  was  devoted  to  the 
pursuit  of  pleasure — of  worldly  pleasiu-e,  it  is  true,  in  its  most 
refined  aspect — but  still  of  such  pleasiu-es  as  are  entirely  apart 
from  those  of  the  soul. 

One  of  his  friends  had  i^resented  Inglesant  with  a  little 
book,  "  Divine  Considerations  of  those  things  most  profitable  in 
our  Christian  profession,"  written  in  Spanish  by  John  Yaldesso, 
a  Papist,  and  translated  by  a  gentleman  of  whom  Johnny  heard 
a  great  deal,  and  was  exceedingly  interested  in  what  he  heard. 
In  this  book  the  author  sa\"s  several  very  high  and  beautiful 
things  concerning  the  Spiritual  life,  and  of  the  gradual  illumina- 
tion of  the  Divine  Light  shed  upon  the  mind,  as  the  sun  breaks 


52  JOHN  INGLESANT  j  [chap.  IV, 

by  degrees  upon  the  eyes  of  a  traveller  in  tlie  dark.  But  though 
Johnny  was  attracted  to  the  book  itself,  he  was  principally 
interested  in  it  by  what  he  heard  of  the  translator.  This  was 
Mr.  Nicholas  Ferrar,  who  had  founded  a  religious  house  at 
Little  Gidding,  in  Huntingdonshire,  or,  as  it  was  called  in  the 
world,  the  "  Protestant  Nunnery,"  in  which  he  lived  with  his 
mother  and  several  nephews  and  nieces,  in  the  practice  of  good 
works  and  the  worship  of  God.  Extraordinary  attention  had 
been  attracted  to  this  establishment  by  the  accounts  of  the 
strange  and  holy  life  of  its  inmates ;  and  still  more  by  the 
notice  which  the  King  had  condescended  to  take  of  it,  not  only 
visiting  it  on  his  journey  to  Scotland,  in  1633,  but  also  request- 
ing and  accepting  presents  of  devotional  books,  which  it  was 
part  of  the  occupation  of  the  family  to  prepare. 

The  accounts  of  this  religious  house,  and  of  the  family  within 
it,  so  excited  Johnny's  imagination  that  he  became  exceedingly 
desirous  to  see  it,  especially  as  it  was  said  that  Mr.  Ferrar  was 
very  infirm,  and  was  not  expected  to  siurvive  very  long. 

It  was  kite  in  the  autumn  when  he  made  this  visit,  about 
two  months  before  Mr.  Ferrar's  death.  The  rich  autumn  foliage 
was  lighted  by  the  low  sun  as  he  rode  through  the  woods 
and  meadows,  and  across  the  sluggish  streams  of  Bedford  and 
Huntingdon.  He  slept  at  a  village  a  few  miles  south  of  Little 
Gidding,  and  reached  that  place  early  in  the  day.  It  was  a 
solitary,  wooded  place,  with  a  large  manor  house,  and  a  little 
Church  close  by.  It  had  been  for  some  time  depopulated,  and 
there  were  no  cottages  nor  houses  near.  The  manor  house  and 
Church  had  been  restored  to  perfect  order  by  Mr.  Ferrar,  and 
Inglesant  reached  it  through  a  grove  of  trees  planted  in  walks, 
with  latticed  paths  and  gardens  on  both  sides.  A  bwDok  crossed 
the  road  at  the  foot  of  the  gentle  ascent  on  which  the  house 
was  built.  He  asked  to  see  Mr.  Ferrar,  and  was  shown  by  a 
man-servant  into  a  fair  spacious  parloiu",  where  Mr.  Ferrar 
presently  came  to  him.  Inglesant  was  disappointed  at  his 
appearance,  which  was  plain  and  not  striking  in  any  way,  but 
his  speech  was  able  and  attractive.  Johnny  apologized  for  his 
bold  visit,  telling  him  how  much  taken  he  had  been  by  his  book, 
and  by  what  he  had  heard  of  him  and  his  family ;  and  that 
what  he  had  heard  did  not  interest  him  merely  out  of  curiosity, 
as  he  feared  it  might  have  done  many,  but  out  of  sincere  desire 
to  learu  something  of  the  holy  life  which  doubtless  that  familj 


CHAP.  IV.]  A  ROIVIANCE.  53 

led.  To  this  Mr.  Ferrar  replied  that  he  was  thankful  to  see 
any  one  who  came  in  such  a  spirit,  and  that  several,  not  only 
of  his  own  friends,  as  Mr.  Crashaw  the  poet,  but  many  yoimg 
students  from  the  University  at  Cambridge  came  to  see  him  in 
a  like  spirit,  to  the  benefit,  he  hoped,  of  both  themselves  and  of 
him.  He  said  with  great  humility,  that  although  on  the  one 
hand  very  much  evil  had  been  spoken  of  him  which  was  not 
true,  he  had  no  doubt  that,  on  the  other,  many  things  had  been 
said  about  their  holiness  and  the  good  that  they  did  which  went 
far  beyond  the  truth.  For  his  own  part,  he  said  he  had  adopted 
that  manner  of  hfe  through  having  long  seen  enough  of  the 
manners  and  vanities  of  the  world;  and  holding  them  in  low 
esteem,  was  resolved  to  spend  the  best  of  his  hfe  in  mortifications 
and  devotion,  in  charity,  and  in  constant  preparation  for  death. 
That  his  mother,  his  elder  brother,  his  sisters,  his  nephews  and 
nieces,  being  content  to  lead  this  mortified  life,  they  spent  their 
time  in  acts  of  devotion  and  by  doing  such  good  works  as  were 
within  their  power,  such  as  keeping  a  school  for  the  children  of 
the  next  parishes,  for  teaching  of  whom  he  provided  three 
masters  who  lived  constantly  in  the  house.  That  for  ten  years 
they  had  hved  this  harmless  life,  imder  the  care  of  his  mother, 
who  had  trained  her  daughters  and  grand-daughters  to  every 
good  work ;  but  two  years  ago  they  had  lost  her  by  death,  and 
as  his  health  was  very  feeble  he  did  not  expect  long  to  be  sepa- 
rated from  her,  but  looked  forward  to  his  departm'e  with  joy, 
being  afraid  of  the  evil  times  he  saw  approaching. 

When  he  had  said  this,  he  led  Ingiesant  into  a  large  hand- 
some room  upstairs,  where  he  introduced  him  to  his  sister,  Mrs. 
Collet,  and  her  daughters,  who  were  engaged  in  making  those 
curious  books  of  Scriptiure  Harmonies  which  had  so  pleased 
King  Charles.  These  seven  young  ladies,  who  formed  the 
junior  part  of  the  Society  of  the  house,  and  were  called  by  the 
names  of  the  chief  virtues,  the  Patient,  the  Cheerfid,  the  Affec- 
tionate, the  Submiss,  the  Obedient,  the  Moderate,  the  Charitable, 
were  engaged  at  that  moment  in  cutting  out  passages  from  two 
.  Testaments,  which  they  pasted  together  so  neatly  as  to  seem 
one  book,  and  in  such  a  manner  as  to  enable  the  reader  to  follow 
the  narrative  in  all  its  particulars  from  beginning  to  end  without 
a  break,  and  also  to  see  which  of  the  sacred  authors  had  contri- 
buted any  particular  part. 

Ingiesant  told  the  ladies  what  fame  reported  of  the  nuns  of 


54  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [OHAP.  IV. 

Gidding,  of  two  watcliing  and  praying  all  night,  of  their  can- 
onical hours,  of  their  crosses  on  the  outside  and  inside  of  their 
Chapel,  of  an  altar  there  richly  decked  with  plate,  tapestry,  and 
tapers,  of  their  adoration  and  genuflexions  at  their  entering. 
He  told  Mr.  Ferrar  that  his  object  in  visiting  him  was  chiefly 
to  know  his  opinion  of  the  Papists  and  their  religion,  as,  having 
been  bred  among  them  himself  and  being  very  nearly  one  of 
them,  he  was  anxious  to  know  the  opinions  of  one  who  was 
said  to  hold  many  of  their  doctrines  without  joining  them  or 
approving  them.  Mr.  Ferrar  appeared  at  first  shy  of  speaking, 
but  being  apparently  convinced  of  the  young  man's  sincerity, 
and  that  he  was  not  an  enemy  in  disguise,  he  conversed  very 
freely  with  him  for  some  time,  speaking  much  of  the  love  of 
God,  and  of  the  vanity  of  worldly  things ;  of  his  dear  friend 
Mr.  George  Herbert,  and  of  his  saintly  life ;  of  the  confused 
and  troublesome  life  he  had  formerly  led,  and  of  the  great  peace 
and  satisfaction  which  he  had  found  since  he  had  left  the  world 
and  betaken  himself  to  that  retired  and  reUgious  Ufe.  That, 
as  regards  the  Papists,  his  translating  Valdessa's  book  was  a 
proof  that  he  knew  that  among  .them,  as  among  all  people, 
there  were  many  true  worshippers  of  Jesus,  being  di'awn  by  the 
blessed  Sacrament  to  follow  him  in  the  spiritual  and  divine  life, 
and  that  there  were  many  things  in  that  book  similar  to  the 
mystical  religion  of  which  Inglesant  spoke,  which  his  dear 
friend  Mr.  George  Herbert  had  disapproved,  as  exalting  the 
inward  spiritual  life  above  the  foundation  of  holy  Scripture : 
that  it  was  not  for  him,  who  was  only  a  deacon  in  the  Church, 
to  pronounce  any  opinion  on  so  difficult  a  point,  and  that  he 
had  printed  all  Mr.  Herbert's  notes  in  his  book,  without  com- 
ment of  his  own :  that  though  he  was  thus  unwilling  to  give 
his  own  judgment,  he  certainly  beheved  that  this  inward  spuit- 
ual  life  was  open  to  all  men,  and  recommended  luglesant  to 
continue  his  endeavours  after  it,  seeking  it  chiefly  in  the  holy 
Sacrament  accompanied  with  mortification  and  confession. 

While  they  were  thus  talking,  the  horn:  of  evening  prayer 
arrived,  and  Mr.  Ferrar  invited  Johnny  to  accompany  him  to 
the  Church ;  which  he  gladly  did,  being  very  much  attracted 
by  the  evident  hoHness  which  pervaded  Mr.  Ferrar's  talk  and 
manner.  The  family  proceeded  to  Church  in  procession,  Mr. 
Ferrar  and  Inglesant  walking  first.  The  Chmch  was  kept  in 
great  order,  the  altar  being  placed  upon  a  raised  platform  at 


CHAP.  IV.]  A  ROMANCE.  55 

the  east  end,  and  covered  with  tapestry  stretching  over  the  floor 
all  roimd  it,  and  adorned  with  plate  and  tapers.  Mr.  •Ferrar 
bowed  with  great  reverence  several  times  on  approaching  the 
altar,  and  directed  Inglesant  to  sit  in  a  stalled  seat  opposite  the 
reading  pew,  from  which  he  said  the  evening  prayer.  The  men 
of  the  family  knelt  on  the  raised  step  before  the  altar,  the  ladies 
and  servants  sitting  in  the  body  of  the  Chiu-ch.  The  Church 
was  very  sweet,  being  decked  with  flowers  and  herbs ;  and  the 
soft  autumn  light  Tested  over  it.  From  the  seat  where  Ingle- 
sant knelt,  he  could  see  the  faces  of  the  girls  as  they  bent  over 
their  books  at  prayers.  They  were  all  in  black,  except  one,  who 
wore  a  friar's  grey  gown ;  this  was  the  one  who  was  called  the 
Patient,  as  Inglesant  had  been  told  in  the  house,  and  the  singu- 
larity of  her  dress  attracted  his  eye  towards  her  dm-ing  the 
prayers.  The  whole  scene,  strange  and  romantic  as  it  appeared 
to  him,  the  devout  and  serious  manner  of  the  worshippers — 
very  diflerent  from  much  that  was  common  in  churches  at  that 
day — and  the  abstracted  and  devout  look  upon  the  faces  of  the 
giiis  struck  his  fancy,  so  Hable  to  such  influences,  and  so  long 
trained  to  welcom-e  them ;  and  he  could  not  keep  his  eyes  from 
this  one  face  from  which  the  grey  hood  was  partly  thrown  back. 
It  was  a  passive  face,  with  well-cut  dehcate  features,  and  large 
and  quiet  eyes. 

Prayers  being  over,  the  ladies  saluted  Inglesant  from  a 
distance,  and  left  the  Chiurch  with  the  rest,  in  the  same  order 
as  they  had  come,  leaving  Mr.  Ferrar  and  Johnny  alone.  They 
remained  some  time  discoursing  on  worship  and  Clim-ch  cere- 
monies, and  then  returned  to  the  house.  It  was  now  late,  and 
Mr.  Ferrar,  who  was  evidently  much  pleased  with  his  guest, 
invited  him  to  stay  the  night,  and  even  extended  his  hospitality 
by  askinsT  him  to  stay  over  the  next,  which  was  Satiurday,  and 
the  Simaay,  upon  which,  as  it  was  the  first  Sunday  in  the 
month,  the  holy  Sacrament  would  be  administered,  and  several 
of  Mr.  Ferrar's  friends  from  Cambridge  would  come  over  and 
partake  of  it,  and  to  pass  the  night  and  day  in  prayer  and  acts 
of  devotion.  To  this  proposition  Inglesant  gladly  consented, 
the  whole  proceeding  appearing  to  him  full  of  interest  and 
attraction.  Soon  after  they  returned  to  the  house  supper  was 
served,  aU  the  family  sitting  down  together  at  a  long  table  in 
the  hail  During  supper  some  portion  of  Foxe's  book  of  the 
Martyrs  was  read  aloud.     Afterwards  two  hours  were  permitted 


56  JOHN  INGLESANT :  [cHAP.  IV. 

for  diversion,  during  which  all  were  allowed  to  do  as  they 
pleased; 

The  young  ladies  having  found  out  that  Inglesant  was  a 
Queen's  page,  were  very  curious  to  hear  of  the  Coiut  and  royal 
family  from  him,  which  innocent  request  Mr.  Ferrar  encouraged, 
and  joined  in  himself  One  reason  of  the  success  with  which 
his  mother  and  he  had  ruled  this  household  appears  to  have 
been  his  skill  in  interesting  and  attracting  all  its  inmates  by 
the  variety  and  pleasant  character  of  their  occupations.  He 
was  also  much  interested  himself  in  what  Johnny  told  him,  for 
in  this  secluded  family,  themselves  accustomed  to  prudence, 
Inglesant  felt  he  might  safely  speak  of  many  things  upon  which 
he  was  generally  silent ;  and  after  prayers,  when  the  family  were 
retu'ed  to  their  several  rooms,  Mr.  Ferrar  remained  ^^•ith  him 
some  time,  while  Johnny  related  to  him  the  aspect  of  religious 
parties  at  the  moment,  and  particularly  all  that  he  could  tell, 
without  violating  confidence,  of  the  Papists  and  of  his  friend 
the  Jesuit. 

The  next  morning  they  rose  at  four,  though  two  of  the 
family  had  been  at  prayer  all  night,  and  did  ]]ot  go  to  rest  till 
the  others  rose.  They  went  into  the  oratory  in  the  house 
itself  to  prayers,  for  they  kept  six  times  of  prayer  during  the 
day.  At  six  they  said  the  psalms  of  the  hoiu",  for  every  hour 
had  its  appropriate  psalms,  and  at  half-past  six  went  to  Church 
for  matins.  When  they  returned  at  seven  o'clock,  they  said 
the  psalms  of  the  hoiu-,  sang  a  short  hymn,  and  went  to  break- 
fast. After  breakfast,  when  the  younger  members  of  the  family 
were  at  their  studies,  Mr.  Ferrar  took  Inglesant  to  the  school, 
where  aU  the  children  in  the  neighbom-hood  were  permitted  to 
come.  At  eleven  they  went  to  dinner,  and  after  dinner  there 
was  no  settled  occupation  till  one,  every  one  being  allowed  tg 
amuse  himself  as  he  chose.  The  young  ladies  had  been  trainea 
not  only  to  superintend  the  house,  but  to  wait  on  any  sick 
persons  in  the  neighbourhood  who  came  to  the  house  at  certain 
times  for  assistance,  and  to  dress  the  wounds  of  those  who  were 
hiu-t,  in  order  to  give  them  readiness  and  skill  in  this  employ- 
ment, and  to  habituate  them  to  the  virtues  of  humility  and 
tenderness  of  heart.  A  large  room  was  set  apart  for  this  pur- 
pose, where  Mr.  Ferrar  had  instructed  them  in  the  necessary 
Bkill,  having  been  himself  Physic  Fellow  at  Clare  Hall,  in 
Cambridge,  and  under  the  celebrated  Professors  at  Padua,  in 


I 


CHAP.  IV.]  A  ROMANCE.  57 

Italy.  This  room  Inglesant  requested  to  see,  thinki-ng  that  he 
should  i]i  this  Avay  also  see  something  of  and  he  able  to  speak 
to  the  ynung  ladies,  whose  acquaintance  he  had  hitherto  not  had 
much  opportunity  of  cultivating.  I\Ir.  Ferrar  told  his  nephew 
to  show  it  him — young  Nicholas  Ferrar,  a  young  man  of  extra- 
ordinary skill  in  languages,  who  was  afterwards  introduced  to 
the  King  and  Prince  Charles,  some  time  before  his  early  death. 
When  they  entered  the  room  Inglesant  was  delighted  to  find 
that  the  only  member  of  the  family  there  was  the  young  lady 
in  the  Grey  Friar's  habit,  whose  face  had  attracted  him  so 
much  in  Church.  She  was  listening  to  the  long  tiresome  tale 
of  an  old  woman,  following  the  example  of  George  Herbert, 
who  thought  on  a  similar  occasion,  that  "  it  was  some  relief  to 
a  poor  body  to  be  heard  with  patience." 

Johnny,  who  in  spite  of  his  Jesuitical  and  Court  training 
was  natm-ally  modest,  and  whose  sense  of  religion  made  him 
perfectly  well-bred,  accosted  the  young  lady  very  seriously,  and 
expressed  his  gi'atitude  at  having  been  permitted  to  stay  and 
see  so  many  excellent  and  improving  things  as  that  family  had 
to  show.  The  liking  which  the  head  of  the  house  had  evidently 
taken  for  Inglesant  disposed  the  younger  mend^ers  in  his  favour, 
and  the  young  lady  answered  him  simply  and  unaffectedly,  but 
with  manifest  pleasure. 

Inglesant  inquired  concerning  the  assumed  names  of  the 
sisters  and  how  they  sustained  their  respective  qualities,  and 
vhat  exercises  suited  to  these  qualities  they  had  to  perform. 
She  replied  that  they  had  exercises,  or  discourses,  wdiicli  they 
performed  at  the  great  festivals  of  the  year,  Christmas  and 
Easter;  and  which  were  composed  with  reference  to  their 
several  qualities.  All  of  these,  except  her  own,  were  enlivened 
by  hymns  and  odes  composed  by  Mr.  Ferrar,  and  set  to  music 
by  the  music  master  of  the  family,  who  accompanied  the  voices 
with  the  \dol  or  the  lute.  But  her  own,  she  said,  had  never 
any  music  or  poetry  connected  with  it ;  it  was  always  of  a  very 
serious  turn,  and  much  longer  than  any  other,  and  had  not  any 
historical  anecdote  or  fable  interwoven  with  it,  the  contrivance 
being  to  exercise  that  virtue  to  which  she  was  devoted.  Ingle- 
sant asked  her  with  pity  if  this  was  not  "very  hard  treatment, 
and  she  only  replied,  with  a  smile,  that  she  had  the  enjoyment 
of  all  the  lively  performances  of  the  others.  He  asked  her 
whether  they  looked  forward  to  -passing  all  their  lives  in  tliii 


58  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap,  iV 

manner,  or  whether  they  allowed  the  possibility  of  any  change, 
and  if  she  had  entirely  lost  her  own  name  in  her  assumed  one, 
or  whether  he  might  presume  to  ask  it,  that  he  might  have 
wherewithal  to  remember  her  by,  as  he  siu'ely  should  as  long  as 
he  had  life.  She  said  her  name  was  Mary  Collet ;  and  thai  as 
to  his  former  question,  two  of  her  sisters  had  had,  at  one  time, 
a  great  desire  to  become  veiled  virgins,  to  take  upon  them  a 
vow  of  perpetual  chastity,  with  •  the  solemnity  of  a  Bishop's 
blessing  and  ratification,  but  on  going  to  Bishop  Williams  he 
had  discouraged,  and  at  last  dissuaded  them  from  it. 

Inglesant  and  the  young  lady  remained  talking  in  this  way 
for  some  time,  young  Nicholas  Ferrar  having  left  them ;  but  at 
last  she  excused  herself  from  staying  any  longer,  and  he  was 
obliged  to  let  her  go.  He  ventiu-ed  to  say  that  he  hoped  they 
would  remember  him,  that  he  was  utterly  ignorant  of  the  future 
that  lay  before  him,  but  that  whatever  fate  awaited  him,  he 
should  never  forget  the  "Nuns  of  Gidding"  and  their  religious  life. 
She  replied  that  they  would  certainly  remember  him,  as  they  did 
all  their  acquaintances,  in  their  daily  prayer,  especially  as  she  had 
seldom  seen  her  uncle  so  pleased  with  a  stranger  as  he  had  been 
with  him.  With  these  conijiliments  they  parted,  and  Inglesant 
returned  to  the  drawing-room,  where  more  visitors  had  arrived. 

In  the  afternoon  there  came  from  Cambridge  Mr.  .Crashaw 
the  poet,  of  Peterhouse,  who  afterwards  w^ent  over  to  the 
Papists,  and  died  Canon  of  Loretto,  and  several  gentlemen, 
undergraduates  of  Cambridge,  to  spend  the  Sunday  at  Gidding, 
being  the  first  Sunday  of  the  month.  Mr.  Crashaw,  when 
Inglesant  was  introduced  to  him  as  one  of  the  Queen's  pages, 
finding  that  he  was  acquainted  with  many  Roman  Catholics, 
was  very  friendly,  and  conversed  wdth  him  apart.  He  said  he 
conceived  a  great  admiration  for  the  devout  lives  of  the  Catholic 
saints,  and  of  the  government  and  discipline  of  the  Catholic 
Church,  and  that  he  feared  that  the  English  Church  had  not 
sufficient  authority  to  resist  the  spread  of  Presbyterianism,  in 
which  case  he  saw^  no  safety  except  in  returning  to  the  com- 
mimion  of  Rome.  Walking  up  and  down  the  garden  paths, 
after  evening  prayers  in  Charch,  he  spoke  a  great  deal  on  this 
subject,  and  on  the  beauty  of  a  retired  religious  life,  saying 
that  here  at  Little  Gidding  and  at  Little  St.  Marie's  Church, 
near  to  Peterhouse,  he  had  passed  the  most  blissful  momentis 
of  his  life,  watching  at  m  idnight  in  prayer  and  meditation. 


CHAP.  lY.]  •  A  ROMANCE.  59 

That  night  Mr.  Crashaw,  Inglesant,  and  one  or  two  others, 
remained  in  the  Church  from  nine  till  twelve,  during  which  time 
they  said  over  the  whole  Book  of  Psalms  in  the  way  of  anti- 
phony,  one  repeating  one  verse  and  the  rest  the  other.  The  time 
of  their  watch  being  ended  they  returned  to  the  house,  went  to 
Mr.  Ferrar's  door  and  bade  him  good-morrow,  leaving  a  lighted 
candle  for  him.  They  then  went  to  bed,  but  Mr.  Ferrar  arose 
according  to  the  passage  of  Scripture  "  at  midnight  I  will  arise 
and  give  thanks,"  and  went  into  the  Chmxh,  where  he  betook 
himself  to  reUgious  meditation. 

Early  on  the  Sunday  morning  the  family  were  astir  and 
said  prayers  in  the  oratory.  After  breakfast  many  people  from 
the  country  around  and  more  than  a  hundred  children  came  in. 
These  children  were  called  the  Psalm  children,  and  were  regu- 
larly trained  to  repeat  the  Psalter,  and  the  best  voices  among 
them  to  assist  in  the  service  on  Sundays.  They  came  in  every 
Simday,  and  according  to  the  proficiency  of  each  were  presented 
with  a  small  piece  of  money,  and  the  whole  number  entertained 
with  a  dinner  after  Church.  The  Chiurch  was  crowded  at  the 
morning  service  before  the  Sacrament.  The  service  was  beauti- 
fully sung,  the  whole  fomily  taking  the  greatest  delight  in  C  ."im'ch 
music,  and  many  of  the  gentlemen  from  Cambridge  being  ama- 
tem-s.  The  Sacrament  was  administered  with  the  greatest 
devotion  and  solemnity.  Impressed  as  he  had  been  with  the 
occupation  of  the  preceding  day  and  night,  and  his  mind  excited 
with  watching  and  want  of  sleep  and  with  the  exquisite  strains 
of  the  music,  the  effect  upon  Inglesant's  imaginative  natiu^e  was 
excessive.  Above  the  altar,  which  was  profusely  bedecked  with 
flowers,  the  antique  glass  of  the  east  window,  which  had  been 
carefully  repaired,  contained  a  figiu-e  of  the  Saviour  of  an  early 
and  severe  type.  The  form  was  gracious  and  yet  commanding, 
having  a  brilliant  halo  round  the  head,  and  being  clothed  in  a 
long  and  apparently  seamless  coat ;  the  two  fore-fingers  of  the 
right  hand  were  held  up  to  bless.  Kneeling  upon  the  half-pace, 
as  he  received  the  sacred  bread  and  tasted  the  holy  wine,  this 
gracious  figiue  entered  into  Inglesant's  soul,  and  stillness  and 
peace  unspeakable,  and  life,  and  light,  and  sweetness,  filled  his 
mind.  He  was  lost  in  a  sense  of  raptm-e,  and  earth  and  all 
that  surrounded  him  faded  away.  When  he  returned  a  little  to 
himself,  kneeling  in  his  seat  in  the  Chiu-ch,  he  thought  that  at 
no  period  of  his  life,  however  extended,  should  he  ever  forget 


60  JOHN  .NGLESANT;  [cHAP.  IV, 

that  morning  or  lose  the  senss  and  feeling  of  that  touching  scene, 
of  that  gracious  figure  over  tl  e  altar,  of  the  bowed  and  kneeling 
figui'es,  of  the  misty  autumn  sunlight  and  the  sweeping  autimin 
wind.  Heaven  itself  seemed  to  have  opened  to  him,  and  one 
fairer  than  the  fairest  of  the  angelic  hosts  to  have  come  do^vn 
to  earth. 

After  the  service,  the  family  and  all  the  visitors  returned  to 
the  mansion  house  in  the  order  in  which  they  had  come,  and  the 
Psalm  children  were  entertained  with  a  dinner  in  the  great  hall; 
all  the  family  and  visitors  came  in  to  see  them  served,  and  Mrs. 
Collet,  as  her  mother  had  always  done,  placed  the  first  dish  on 
the  table  herself  to  give  an  example  of  humility.  Grace  having 
been  said,  the  bell  rang  for  the  dinner  of  the  family,  who,  together 
with  the  visitors,  repaired  to  the  great  dining-room,  and  stood  in 
order  round  the  table.  While  the  dinner  was  being  served  they 
sang  a  hymn  accompanied  by  the  organ  at  the  upper  end  of  the 
room.  Then  gi-ace  was  said  by  the  Priest  who  had  celebrated 
tl>e  communion,  and  they  sat  down.  All  the  servants  who  had 
received  the  Sacrament  that  day  sat  at  table  with  the  rest 
During  dinner  one  of  the  young  people  whose  turn  it  was,  read 
a  chai)ter  from  the  Bible,  and  when  that  was  finished  conversa- 
tion was  allowed ;  ]\Ir.  Ferrar  and  some  of  the  other  gentlemen 
endeavouring  to  make  it  of  a  character  suitable  to  the  day,  and 
to  the  service  they  had  just  taken  part  in.  After  dinner  they 
went  to  Church  again  for  evening  prayer ;  between  which  service 
and  supper  Inglesant  had  some  talk  with  Mr.  Ferrar  concerning 
the  Papists  and  Mr,  Crashaw's  opinion  of  them. 

"  I  ought  to  be  a  fit  person  to  advise  you,"  said  Mr.  Ferrar 
with  a  melancholy  smile,  "for  I  am  myself,  as  it  were,  crushed 
between  the  upper  and  nether  millstone  of  contrary  reports,  for 
I  suffer  equal  obloquy — and  no  martyrdom  is  worse  than  that 
of  continual  obloquy — both  for  being  a  Papist  and  a  Puritan. 
You  will  suppose  there  must  be  some  strong  reason  why  I,  who 
value  so  many  things  among  the  Papists  so  much,  have  not 
joined  them  myself.  I  should  probably  have  escaped  much  vio- 
lent invective  if  I  had  done  so.  You  are  very  young,  and  are 
placed  wliere  you  can  see  and  judge  of  both  parties.  You  pos- 
sess sufficient  insight  to  try  the  spirits  whether  they  be  of  God. 
Be  not  hasty  to  decide,  and  before  you  decide  to  join  the  Romisli 
communion,  make  a  tour  abroad,  and  if  you  can,  go  to  Rome 
itself.    When  I  was  in  Italy  and  Spain,  I  made  all  the  iuquiiies 


CHAP,  v.]  A  ROMANCE.  61 

and  researches  I  could.  I  bought  many  scarce  and  valuable 
books  in  the  languages  of  those  countries,  in  collecting  which  I 
had  a  principal  eye  to  those  which  treated  on  the  subjects  of 
spiritual  hfe,  derotion,  and  religious  retirement,  but  the  result 
of  all  was  that  I  am  now,  and  I  shall  die,  as  I  believe  and  hope 
shortly,  in  the  Communion  of  the  English  Church.  This  day, 
as  I  beheve,  the  blessed  Sacrament  has  been  in  the  Church 
before  our  eyes,  and  what  can  you  or  I  desire  more  1" 

The  next  morning  before  Inglesant  left,  Mr.  Ferrar  showed 
him  his  foreign  collections,  his  great  treasiu-e  of  rarities  and  of 
prints  of  the  best  masters  of  that  time,  mostly  relative  to  his- 
torical passages  of  the  Old  and  New  Testaments.  Inglesant 
dined  with  the  family,  of  whom  he  took  leave  with  a  full  heart, 
saluting  the  ladies  with  the  pleasant  familiarity  which  the 
manners  of  the  time  permitted.  Mr.  Ferrar  went  with  him  to 
the  borders  of  the  parish,  and  gave  him  his  blessing.  They 
never  saw  each  other  again,  for  two  months  afterwards  Nicholas 
Ferrar  was  in  his  grave. 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  next  year  of  Inglesant's  life  contained  several  incidents 
which  had  very  important  results.  The  first  of  these  was  the 
illness  and  death  of  his  father,  which  occurred  shortly  after 
Johnny's  return  to  London.  His  end  was  doubtless  hastened 
by  the  perplexity  and  disappointment  of  many  of  his  political 
projects,  for  his  life  in  many  respects  was  a  failure.  Though  a 
rich  man  he  had  spent  large  sums  in  his  political  intrigues,  and 
the  property  he  left  was  not  large.  His  lands  and  all  his  money 
he  left  to  his  eldest  son,  but  he  left  Johnny  some  houses  in 
the  city,  which  Inglesant  was  advised  to  sell.  He  therefore 
disposed  of  them  to  a  Parliament  man,  and  deposited  the  money 
with  a  goldsmith  to  be  ready  in  case  of  need.  The  possession 
of  this  money  made  him  an  important  person,  and  he  was 
advised  to  purchase  a  place  about  the  Court,  which,  with  his 
interest  with  the  Queen's  advisers,  would  secure  his  success  in 
life.  He  endeavoured  to  act  on  this  advice,  but  it  was  some 
time  before  he  was  successful. 

After    his  return   to  London  Inglesant  saw  Mr,   Craslia-V7 


62  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap.  v. 

two  or  three  times,  when  that  gentleman  was  in  London,  and 
his  conversation  led  him  to  think  more  of  the  Roman  Catholics 
than  he  had  hitherto  done,  and  inclined  him  more  and  more  to 
join  them.  Nothing  wouid  have  recommended  him  so  much  to 
the  Queen  as  such  a  step,  and  his  feelings  and  sympathies  all 
led  him  the  same  way.  He  was  exceedingly  disgusted  with  the 
conduct  and  conversation  of  the  Puritans,  and  the  extreme 
lengths  to  which  it  was  evident  they  were  endeavouring  to 
drive  the  people.  Most  of  his  friends,  even  those  who  were 
themselves  sound  Churchmen,  looked  favourably  on  the  Papists, 
and  it  was  thought  the  height  of  ill  breeding  to  speak  against 
them  at  Court.  It  is  probable,  therefore,  that  Inglesant  would 
have  joined  them  openly  but  for  two  very  opposite  causes.  The 
one  was  his  remembrance  of  the  Sacrament  at  Little  Gidding, 
the  other  was  the  influence  of  his  friend  the  Jesuit.  The  first 
of  these  prevented  that  craving  after  the  sacrifice  of  the  Mass, 
which  doubtless  is  the  strongest  of  all  the  motives  which  lead 
men  to  Rome ;  the  other  was  exerted  several  ways. 

It  was  one  of  the  pohtical  maxims  of  this  man  that  he  never, 
if  possible,  allowed  anything  he  had  gained  or  any  mode  of  in- 
fluence he  had  acquired  to  be  lost  or  neglected,  even  though 
circumstances  had  rendered  it  useless  for  the  particular  purpose 
for  which  he  had  at  first  intended  it.  In  the  present  case  he 
had  no  intention  of  permitting  all  the  care  and  pains  he  had 
been  at  in  Inglesant's  education  to  be  thrown  away.  It  is  true 
the  exact  use  to  which  he  had  intended  to  devote  the  talents 
he  had  thus  trained  no  longer  existed,  but  this  did  not  prevent 
his  appreciating  the  exquisite  fitness  of  the  instrument  he  had 
prepared  for  such  or  similar  use.  Circumstances  had  occurred 
which  in  his  far-seeing  policy  made  the  Church  of  England 
scarcely  worth  gaining  to  the  Catholic  side,  but  in  proportion 
as  the  Chiu-ch  might  cease  to  be  one  of  the  great  powers  in  the 
country,  the  Papists  would  step  into  its  place  :  and  in  the  con- 
fused political  struggles  which  he  foresaw,  the  Jesuit  anticipated 
ample  occupation  for  the  peculiar  properties  of  his  pupil.  In 
the  event  of  a  struggle,  the  termination  of  which  none  could 
foresee,  a  qualified  agent  would  be  required  as  much  between 
the  Papists  and  the  popular  leaders  as  between  the  Catholics 
and  the  Royal  and  Church  party.  Acting  on  these  principles, 
therefore,  the  Jesuit  was  far  from  losing  sight  of  Inglesant,  or 
even  neglecting  him,     So  far  indeed  was  he  from  doing  so,  that 


CHAP,  v.]  A  ROIVIANCE.  63 

he  was  acquainted  with  most  that  passed  through  his  mind,  and 
was  well  aware  of  his  increased  attraction  towards  the  Church 
to  which  he  himself  belonged.  Now  for  Ingiesant  to  have 
become  actively  and  enthusiastically  a  Papist  would  at  once 
have  defeated  all  his  plans  for  him,  and  rendered  him  useless 
for  the  peculiar  needs  for  which  he  had  been  prepared.  He 
would  doubtless  have  gone  abroad,  and  even  if  he  had  not  re- 
mained buried  in  some  college  on  the  Continent,  he  would  have 
returned  merely  as  one  of  those  mission  priests  (for  doubtless  he 
would  have  taken  orders)  of  whom  the  Jesuit  had  already  more 
than  he  required.  It  was  even  not  desirable  that  he  should 
associate  exclusively  with  Papists.  He  was  already  suflSciently 
known  and  his  position  understood  among  them  for  the  purposes 
of  any  future  mission  on  which  he  might  be  engaged ;  and  it 
would  be  more  to  the  purpose  for  him  to  extend  his  acquaintance 
among  Church  of  England  people,  and  gain  their  confidence. 
To  this  end  the  Jesuit  thought  proper  to  remove  him  from  the 
immediate  attendance  on  the  Queen,  where  he  saw  few  except 
Papists,  and  to  assist  in  his  endeavours  to  purchase  a  place 
about  the  King's  person.  In  this  he  was  successful,  and  about 
the  end  of  1639  Ingiesant  purchased  the  place  of  one  of  the 
E.squires  of  the  Body  who  relinquished  his  place  on  account  of 
ill  health.  This  post,  which  followed  immediately  after  that  of 
the  gentlemen  of  the  Privy  Chamber,  was  looked  upon  as  a 
very  important  and  influential  one,  and  cost  Ingiesant  a  large 
sum  of  money  before  he  obtained  it.  He  was,  as  we  have  seen, 
rather  a  favourite  with  the  King,  who  had  noticed  him  more 
than  once,  and  he  began  to  be  regarded  as  a  rising  courtier 
whose  friendship  it  would  be  well  to  keep. 

AVheu  the  Jesuit  had  seen  him  settled  in  his  new  post,  he 
put  in  motion  another  and  still  more  powerful  engine  which  he 
had  prepared  for  preventing  his  pupil  from  joining  the  Romish 
Church.  He  had  himself  inculcated  as  much  as  possible  a 
broad  and  philosophical  method  of  thought  upon  his  pupil,  but 
he  was  necessarily  confined  and  obstructed  in  this  direction  by 
his  own  position  and  supposed  orthodoxy,  and  he  was  therefore 
anxious  to  infuse  into  Inglesant's  mind  a  larger  element  of 
rational  inquiry  than  in  his  sacred  character  it  was  possible  for 
him  to  accomplish  without  shocking  his  pupU's  moral  sense.  If 
I  have  not  failed  altogether  in  representing  that  pupil's  charac- 
loT;  it  will  have  been  noticed  that  it  was  one  of  those  which 


64  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [cHAP.  V. 

combine  activity  of  thought  with  great  faculty  of  reverence  and 
of  submission  to  those  powers  to  which  its  fancy  and  taste  are 
subordinated.  Thewe  natiu-es  are  enthusiastic,  though  generally 
not  supposed  to  be  so,  and  though  little  sign  of  it  appears  in 
their  outward  conduct ;  for  the  objects  of  their  enthusiasm  being 
generally  different  from  those  which  attract  most  men,  they  are 
conscious  that  they  have  little  sympathy  to  expect  in  their  pur- 
suit of  them,  and  this  gives  their  enthusiasm  a  reserved  and  cau- 
tious demeanoiu*.  They  are  not,  however,  blindly  enthusiastic, 
but  are  never  satisfied  till  tlfey  have  found  some  theory  by  which 
they  are  able  to  reconcile  in  their  own  minds  the  widest  results 
to  which  their  activity  of  thought  has  led  them,  with  the  sub- 
mission and  service  which  it  is  their  delight  and  clioice  to  pay 
to  such  outward  systems  and  authorities  as  have  pleased  and 
attracted  their  taste.  This  theory  consists  generally  in  some, 
at  times  half-formed,  conception  of  the  imperfect  dispensation 
in  which  men  live,  which  makes  obedience  to  authority,  with 
which  the  most  exalted  reason  cannot  entirely  sympathize, 
becoming  and  even  necessar}^  This  feeling  more  than  any- 
thing else,  gives  to  persons  of  this  nature  a  demeanoiu*  quite 
different  from  that  of  the  ordinary  religious  or  political  enthusi- 
ast, a  demeanour  seemingly  cold  and  indifferent,  though  coiu:- 
teous  and  even  to  some  extent  sympathetic,  and  which  causes 
the  true  fanatic  to  esteem  them  as  little  better  than  the  mere 
man  of  the  world,  or  the  minion  of  courtly  power.  The 
enthusiastic  part  of  his  character  had  been  fully  cultivated  in 
Inglesant,  the  reasoning  and  philosophic  part  had  been  wakened 
and  trained-  to  some  extent  by  his  readings  in  Plato  under  the 
direction  of  the  Jesuit;  it  remained  now  to  be  still  more 
developed,  whether  to  the  ultimate  improvement  of  his  charac- 
ter it  would  be  hard  to  say. 

The  Jesuit  took  him  one  day  into  the  city  to  Devonshire 
House,  where,  inquiring  ^  for  Mr.  Hobbes,  they  were  shown  into 
a  large  handsome  room  full  of  book's,'' where  a  gentleman  was 
sitting  whose  appearance  struck  Inglesant  very  much.  He  was 
tall  and  very  erect,  with  a  square  mallet-shaped  head  and  ample 
forehead.  He  wore  a  small  red  moustache,  that  curled  upward, 
and  a  small  tuft  of  hair  upon  his  chin.  His  eyes  were  hazel 
and  full  of  life  and  spirit,  and  when  he  spoke  they  shone  witli 
lively  light;  when  he  was  witty  and  laughed  the  lids  closed 
over  them  so  that  they  could  scarcely  be  seen,  but  when  he 


CHAP,  v.]  A  ROIMANCE.  65 

was  serious  and  in  earnest  they  expanded  to  their  fidl  orb,  and 
penetrated",  as  it  seemed,  to  the  farthest  limit  of  thought.  He 
was  dressed  in  a  coat  of  black  velvet  lined  with  fur,  and  wore 
long  boots  of  Spanish  leather  laced  with  ribbon. 

When  the  first  compliments  were  over,  the  Jesuit  introduced 
Inglesant  to  him  as  a  yoimg  gentleman  of  promise,  who  would 
derive  great  benefit  from  his  acquamtance,  and  whose  friendship 
he  hoped  might  not  prove  unacceptable  to  Mr.  Hobbes. 

Inglesant  came  often  to  Mr.  Hobbes,  whose  conversation 
dehghted  him.  It  frequently  referred  to  the  occurrences  of  the 
day,  in  which  Mr.  Hobbes  sided  with  the  Government,  having 
a  great  regard  for  the  King  personally,  as  had  Harrington  after- 
wards, and  most  of  the  philosophers — all  their  sympathies  and 
theories  being  on  the  side  of  law  and  strong  government ;  but 
their  disco  luse  frequently  went  beyond  this,  and  embraced  those 
questions  of  hiunan  existence  which  interest  thinking  men.  He 
soon  found  out  Inglesant's  tendency  towards  Catholicism,  and 
strongly  dissuaded  him  from  it. 

"  Yoiu-  idea  of  the  Catholic  system,"  he  said,  "  is  a  dream,  ' 
and  has  no  real  existence  among  the  Papists.  Your  ideal  is  an 
exalted  Platonic  manifestation  of  the  divine  existence  diffused 
among  men :  the  reality  is  a  system  of  mean  trivial  details, 
wearisome  and  disgusting  to  such  men  as  you  are.  Instead  of 
the  perfect  communion  with  the  Divine  Light,  such  as  you  seek, 
you  will  have  before  you  and  above  you  nothing  but  the  narrow 
conceptions  of  some  ignorant  priest  to  whom  you  must  submit 
yoiu-  intellect.  What  freedom  of  thought  or  existence  will  re- 
main to  you  when  you  have  fully  accepted  the  article  of  transub- 
stantiation,  and  tridy  believe  that  the  priest  is  able  of  a  piece 
of  bread  to  make  absolutely  and  unconditionally  om-  Saviour's 
body,  and  thereby  at  the  hoiu*  of  death  to  save  your  soul?  Will 
it  not  have  an  effect  upon  you  to  make  you  think  him  a  god, 
and  to  stand  in  awe  of  him  as  of  God  Himself  if  he  were  visibly 
present  V 

"  I  suppose  it  would,"  said  Inglesant. 

"  One  of  our  divines  of  the  English  Church,  writing  much 
above  their  wont — for  they  are  much  stronger  in  their  lives  than 
in  their  writings — puts  this  very  plainly  in  the  matter  of  the 
judgment  of  the  priest  in  confession.  '  Yet  this  extorted  con- 
fession on  Pain  of  Damnation  is  not  the  stripping  a  man  to  his 
naked  body,  but  the  stripping  him  of  his  body,  that  they  may 


66  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [OHAP.  V. 

see  his  naked  heart,  and  so,  by  the  force  of  this  superstition, 
break  into  those  secrets,  which  it  is  the  only  due  privilege  ol 
Almighty  God  to  be  acquainted  with,  who  is  the  only  rightfid 
Searcher  of  hearts.'  These  men  may  well  pretend  to  be  followers 
of  Aiistotle,  who  reason  only  from  the  names  of  things,  accord- 
ing to  the  scale  of  the  Categories ;  but  of  those  of  the  better 
sort,  as  you  and  I  take  ourselves  to  be,  who  follow  Plato,  and 
found  our  doctrine  on  the  conceptions  and  ideas  of  things,  we 
must  ever  submit  to  be  called  heretics  by  them  as  a  reproach, 
though  we,  doubtless,  and  not  they,  are  the  true  sacramentalists, 
that  is,  the  seekers  for  the  hidden  and  the  divine  truth.  It  is 
for  this  reason  that  I  take  the  Sacrament  in  the  English  Chiu-ch, 
which  I  call  in  England  the  Holy  Church,  and  believe  that  its 
statutes  are  the  true  Christian  Fait5." 

"  There  seems  to  me,"  he  went  on  after  a  pause,  "something 
friglitfully  grotesque  about  the  Romish  Chiu-ch  as  a  reality. 
Showing  us  on  the  one  side  a  mass  of  fooleries  and  ridiculous 
conceits  and  practices,  at  which,  but  for  the  use  of  them,  all 
men  must  needs  stand  amazed ;  such  rabble  of  impossible  relics, 
— the  hay  that  was  in  the  manger,  and  more  than  one  tail  of 
the  ass  on  which  Christ  rode  into  Jerusalem,  besides  hundreds 
which  for  common  decency  no  man  in  any  other  case  would  so 
much  as  name.  To  look  on  these,  I  say,  on  one  side,  and  on 
the  other  to  see  those  frightful  and  intolerable  cruelties,  so 
detestable  that  they  cannot  be  named,  by  which  thousands  have 
been  tormented  by  this  holy  and  pm*e  Church,  has  something 
about  it  so  grotesque  and  fantastic  that  it  seems  to  me  some- 
times more  like  some  masque  or  dance  of  satyrs  or  devils  than 
the  followers  of  our  Savioiu-  Christ." 

"  All  this,"  said  Inglesant,  "  I  partly  believe,  yet  I  imagine 
that  something  may  be  said  upon  the  other  side  of  the  argument, 
and  I  should  suppose  that  there  is  not  one  of  these  doctrines 
and  practices  but  what  has  some  shadow  of  truth  in  it,  and 
sprang  at  first  from  the  wellspring  of  truth." 

"Doubtless,"  said  the  philosopher,  "there  is  nothing  but 
has  had  its  origin  in  some  conception  of  the  truth,  but  are  we 
'  for  this  cause,'  as  that  same  divine  says,  *  also  to  forsake  the 
Truth  itself,  and  devotionally  prostrate  ourselves  to  every 
evanescent  and  far-cast  show  of  Him — shadows  of  shadows 
— in  infinite  myriads  of  degenerations  from  Him?'  Sm'ely 
not." 


CHAP,  v.]  A  ROMANCK  67 

"What  is  truth f  said  Inglesant ;  "who  shall  show  ua 
any  good  ?" 

"  Truth,"  said  the  philosopher,  "is  that  which  we  have  been 
taught,  that  which  the  civil  government  under  which  we  Hve 
instructs  us  in  and  directs  us  to  believe.  Our  Savioiu  Christ 
came  as  the  Messiah  to  establish  His  kingdom  on  earth,  and 
after  Him  the  Apostles  and  Christian  Princes  and  Common- 
wealths have  handed  down  His  truth  to  us.  This  is  our  only 
safe  method  of  belief." 

"  But  should  we  believe  nothing  of  Christianity,"  said  Ingle- 
sant, "unless  the  civil  government  had  taught  it  us?" 

"How  can  you  believe  anything,"  said  Hobbes,  "unless 
you  have  first  been  taught  it?  and  in  a  Christian  Common- 
wealth the  civil  government  is  the  vicar  of  Christ.  I  know  the 
Jesuits,"  said  Hobbes,  "  and  they  me  ;  when  I  was  in  France, 
some  of  them  came  to  trouble  me  about  something  I  had  said. 
I  quieted  them  by  promising  to  write  a  book  upon  them  if  they 
did  not  let  me  be  :  what  they  seek  is  influence  over  the  minds 
of  men ;  to  gain  this  they  will  allow  every  vice  of  which  man 
is  capable.  I  could  prove  it  from  their  books.  It  is  not  for 
me,  whom  you  scarcely  know,  to  say  anything  against  a  friend 
whom  you  have  known  so  long ;  but,  as  I  understand  you,  yoiu- 
friend  does  not  advise  you  to  become  a  Papist.  I  do  not  sup- 
pose, though  possibly  you  may  do  so,  that  he  has  no  other 
object  in  view  than  yoiu-  welfare.  He  has  doubtless  far-reach- 
ing reasons  of  which  we  know  nothing;  nevertheless,  be  not 
distrustful  of  him,  but  in  this  especially  follow  his  advice. 
Shakespeare,  the  play -writer,  says  'there's  a  divinity  that 
shapes  oiu:  ends,'  or,  I  should  say,  the  ends  that  others  work 
out  for  us,  to  His  higher  purpose.  Let  us  have  faith  in  this 
beneficent  Artist,  and  let  Him  accomplish  His  will  on  us." 

"  But  this,"  said  Inglesant,  "  is  very  different  from  what  my 
reading  and  experience  in  mystical  religion  has  taught  me. 
Is  there  then  no  mediiun  between  the  Divine  Life  and  ourselves 
than  that  of  the  civil  government  ?  This  would  seem  to  me 
most  repulsive  and  contrary  to  experience." 

"  If  you  pretend  to  a  direct  revelation,"  said  Hobbes  with  a 
smile,  "  I  have  nothing  to  allege  against  it,  but,  to  the  rest  of 
us,  Christian  Sovereigns  are  the  supreme  pastors  and  the  only 
persons  we  now  hear  speak  fi:om  God.  But  because  God  giveth 
faith  by  means  of  teachers,  therefore  I  call  hearing  the  imme- 


68  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap.  V. 

diate  cause  of  fai:h.  In  a  school  where  many  are  taught,  some 
profit,  others  profit  not;  the  cause  of  learning  in  them  that 
profit  is  the  Master,  yet  it  cannot  he  thence  inferred  that  learn- 
ing is  not  the  gift  of  God.  All  good  things  proceed  from  God, 
yet  cannot  all  that  have  them  say  that  they  are  inspired,  for 
that  implies  a  gift  supernatural  and  the  immediate  hand  of  God, 
which  he  that  pretends  to,  pretends  to  be  a  prophet." 

"I  am  loath  to  believe  what  you  say,"  said  Inglesant ;  "  I 
am  no  prophet,  yet  I  would  willingly  belic\  o  that  God  is  speak- 
ing to  me  with  an  immediate  voice,  nay,  more,  that  I  may 
enter  into  the  very  life  that  God  is  leading,  and  partake  of  His 
nature.  Also,  what  you  now  say  seems  to  me  to  contradict 
what  you  said  before,  that  we  should  endeavom^  to  found  our 
doctrine  on  the  conceptions  and  ideas  of  things,  which  I  take  to 
mean  a  following  after  divine  truth  :  nor  do  I  see  why  you  take 
the  sacrament,  as  you  say  you  do,  except  you  expect  some  imme- 
diate communication  from  God  in  it." 

The  philosopher  smiled.  "One  may  see  you  have  been 
taught  in  the  Jesuits'  college,"  he  said,  "  and  are  a  forward  pupil 
and  a  close  reasoner.  But  what  I  have  said  concerning  faith 
coming  by  hearmg  need  not  prevent  that  afterwards  God  may 
convey  other  gifts  to  men  by  other  means.  Yet  I  confess  I  am 
not  a  proficient  in  this  divine  knowledge  or  life  of  which  you 
speak;  nor  do  I  follow  your  master  Plato  very  far  into  the 
same  conclusions  which  many  profess  to  find  in  him.  One  dis- 
putant grounds  his  knowledge  upon  the  infallibility  of  the 
Church,  and  the  other  on  the  testimony  of  the  private  spirit. 
The  first  we  need  not  discuss,  but  how  do  you  know  that  your 
private  spirit,  that  this  divine  Ufe  within  you,  is  any  other 
than  a  belief  grounded  on  the  authority  and  arguments  of  your 
teachers?" 

Inglesant  made  no  reply,  which  the  philosopher  perceiving, 
began  to  talk  of  something  else,  and  the  other  soon  after  took 
his  leave.  Hobbes's  doctrine  was  new  to  him,  as  it  was  to 
every  one  in  that  day,  indeed,  the  particular  form  it  took  was 
peculiar  to  Hobbes,  and  perished  with  him ;  but  the  underlying 
materialism  which  in  some  form  or  other  has  presented  itself  to 
the  thinkers  of  every  age,  and  which  now  for  the  first  time 
came  before  Inglesant's  mind,  was  not  without  its  efi'ect.  "  How 
do  I  know  indeed,"  he  said,  "that  this  divine  life  within  me  is 
anything  but  an  opinion  formed  by  what  I  have  heard  and 


CHAP.  VI.]  A  ROMANCE.  69 

read  ?     How  do  I  know  that  there  is  any  such  thing  as  a  divice 
lifeatalU" 

Such  thoughts  as  these,  if  they  produced  no  other  effect,  yet 
gradually  lessened  that  eagerness  in  his  mind  towards  divine 
things  which  had  been  so  strong  since  his  visit  to  Little  Gid- 
ding,  and  quite  satisfied  him  to  defer  at  any  rate  any  thoughts 
of  joining  the  Chm'ch  of  Rome.  But  his  thoughts  were  turned 
into  other  channels  by  the  events  which  were  occurring  in  the 
political  world,  and  which  began  now  to  assume  a  very  exciting 
ehai'acter. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

On  the  20th  of  August  1640  the  King  set  out  for  York  on 
his  way  to  Scotland,  in  some  haste,  and  Inglesant  accompanied 
or  rather  preceded  him,  his  duty  being  to  provide  apartments 
for  the  King.  The  King  advanced  no  farther  than  North 
Allerton,  Lord  Strafford  being  at  Darlington,  and  a  large  part 
of  the  army  at  Newbimi-upon-Tyne,  from  whence  they  retreated 
before  the  Scots  almost  without  fighting.  It  was  at  this  time 
that  Inglesant  began  to  see  more  of  the  real  state  of  affairs 
among  the  leaders  of  the  royal  party,  and  became  aware  of  the 
real  weakness  of  their  position.  He  appears  to  have  formed 
the  opinion  that  Lord  Strafford,  in  spite  of  his  great  qualities, 
had  failed  altogether  in  establishing  himself  on  a  firm  and 
lasting  footing  of  power,  and  was  deficient  in  those  qualities  of 
a  statesman  that  ensure  success,  and  incapable  of  realizing  the 
necessities  of  the  times.  His  army,  on  which  he  relied,  was 
disorganized,  and  totally  witliout  devotion  or  enthusiasm.  It 
melted  a,way  before  the  Scots,  or  fraternized  with  them,  and 
the  trained  bands  and  gentry  who  came  into  the  King's  standard 
and  to  the  Earl,  prefaced  aU  their  offers  of  service  with  petitions 
for  the  redress  of  grievances  and  the  calling  together  a  Parlia- 
ment. Inglesant  had  abeady  formed  the  opinion  that  the 
Archbishop,  who  was  now  left  at  the  head  of  affairs  in  London 
with  the  Privy  Council,  and  was  vainly  endeavouring  to  prevent 
the  citizens  from  sending  up  monster  petitions  to  the  King,  was 
even  more  at  variance  mth  the  inevitable  course  of  events,  and 
more  powerless  to  withstand  them,  than  the  Earl;   and  ha 


70  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [cHAP.  VL 

appears  to  have  TNTitten  to  his  friend  the  Jesuit,  for  his  guid- 
ance, careful  explanations  of  his  o^vn  views  on  these  subjects. 
Father  Hall,  however,  was  not  a  man  hastily  to  change  his 
course.  He  had  belonged  from  the  beginning  to  that  section  of 
the  popish  party  whose  policy  had  been  to  support  the  High 
Church  party  rather  than  to  oppose  it,  and  this,  policy  was 
strengthened  now  that  the  royal  power  itself  began  to  be  at- 
tacked. Whatever  others  of  the  popish  party  might  think, 
those  with  whom  the  Jesuit  acted,  and  the  party  at  Eome 
which  .directed  their  conduct,  were  undeviating  supporters  of 
the  King,  and  were  cinvinced  that  all  advantage  which  the 
Papists  might  in  future  achieve  was  dependent  upon  him.  It 
is  not  apparent  what  action  the  Jesuit  was  taking  at  this 
moment,  probably  he  was  contented  to  watch  the  course  of 
events;  but  this  much  is  certain,  that  his  efforts  to  induce 
Cliiu-chmen  to  work  with  him  were  increased  rather  than 
diminished. 

While  the  King  was  at  York,  the  Marquis  of  Montrose,  who 
was  in  the  Covenanters'  army,  carried  on  a  correspondence  with 
him,  and  copies  of  his  letters  were  believed  to  be  stolen  from 
the  King's  pockets  at  night  by  one  of  the  gentlemen  of  the  bed- 
chamber, and  sent  to  the  leader  of  the  Scots'  army.  Montrose 
retired  into  Scotland,  and  as  the  King  was  desirous  of  continu- 
ing a  correspondence  which  promised  so  much,  he  decided  upon 
sending  a  special  messenger  to  the  Marquis.  Inglesant  was 
fixed  upon  for  this  mission,  as  being  known  by  the  Royalists  as 
a  confidential  agent  of  the  Court,  but  at  the  same  time  almost 
entirely  unknown  to  the  opposite  party.  He  found  Montrose  at 
Edinburgh,  at  a  time  when  the  Marquis  was  endeavouring  to 
form  a  party  among  the  nobility  of  Scotland,  in  opposition  to  the 
Covenant.  Inglesant  was  probably  little  more  in  this  nego- 
tiation than  an  accredited  letter-carrier  ;  but  a  circi^mstance 
occm-red  in  connection  with  his  stay  in  Scotland  which  is  not 
without  interest  with  reference  to  his  future  character.  Among 
the  gentlemen  with  whom  Montrose  was  in  connection,  were 
some  of  the  Highland  chiefs,  and  to  one  of  these  the  Marquis 
sent  Inglesant  as  a  safe  agent,  being  perfectly  unknown  in  Scot- 
land. This  gentleman,  understanding  that  the  messenger  of 
Montrose  was  coming  to  meet  him,  travelled  down  from  the 
Highlands  with  a  great  retinue  of  servants,  and  sent  on  one  of 
his  gentlemen,  with  a  few  attendants,  to  meet  the  young  English- 


cnAP.  VI.]  A  RO^IANCE.  71 

man  on  the  borders  of  Perthshire.  Inglesant  had  ridden  fi>)m 
Stirling,  and  the  night  being  stormy  and  dark,  he  had  stopped 
at  a  gentleman's  house  in  a  lonely  situation  at  the  foot  of  the 
Badenoch  Hills.  Here,  late  in  the  evening,  his  entertainers 
met  him,  and  they  pissed  the  night  in  company.  After  supper, 
as  they  were  sitting  in  front  of  the  fire  with  the  master  of  the 
house  and  several  more,  the  conversation  turned  upon  the  faculty 
of  second  sight  and  the  numberless  instances  of  its  certainty 
with  which  the  Highland  gentlemen  were  acquainted.  While 
they  were  thus  discoursing,  the  attention  of  the  gentleman  who 
had  come  to  meet  Inglesant  was  attracted  by  an  old  Highlander 
who  sat  in  the  large  chimney,  and  he  inquired  whether  he  saw 
an}i;hing  unusual  in  the  Englishman,  that  made  him  regard  him 
with  such  attention.  He  said  no,  he  saw  nothing  in  him  fatal 
or  remarkable  more  than  this,  that  he  was  much  mistaken  if 
that  yoimg  man  was  not  a  seer  himself,  or,  at  any  rate,  would 
be  able  before  many  months  were  over  to  see  apparitions  and 
spirits.  Inglesant  thought  little  of  this  at  the  time,  but  he 
remembered  it  afterwards  when  an  event  occiured  on  his  return 
to  London  which  recalled  it  to  his  recollection. 

The  treaty  having  been  settled  with  the  Scots,  and  the  writs 
issued  for  a  new  Parliament,  the  King  returned  to  London. 

One  day  in  September,  Inglesant  received  a  visit  from  one 
of  the  servants  of  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbm-y,  who  brought  a 
message  from  Laud  expressing  a  wish  to  see  Mr.  Inglesant  at  his 
dinner  at  Lambeth  Palace  on  any  day  that  would  suit  his  con- 
venience. He  went  the  next  day  by  water  at  the  proper  hour, 
and  was  ushered  into  the  gTeat  hall  of  the  palace,  where  dinner 
was  laid,  and  many  gentlemen  and  clergymen  standing  about  in 
the  windows  and  round  the  tables,  waiting  the  Archbishop. 
Inglesant's  entrant  ;e  was  remarked  at  once,  his  dress  and  appear- 
ance rendering  him  conspicuous,  and  his  person  being  well 
known,  and  occasioned  some  siu-prise ;  for  the  Archbishop  had 
not  been  latterly  on  friendly  terms  with  the  Queen,  whom  he 
had  opposed  on  some  questions  relating  to  Papists,  to  whose 
party,  even  since  his  being  in  the  King's  household,  Inglesant 
was  considered  to  belong.  The  servants  had  evidently  received 
orders  concerning  him,  for  he  was  placed  very  high  at  table,  and 
waited  upon  with  great  attention.  On  the  Archbishop's  entrance 
he  noticed  Inglesant  particularly,  and  expressed  his  pleasure  at 
seeing  him  there.     The  conversation  at  dinner  turned  entirely 


72  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap,  vi 

on  the  Scotch  rebellion,  and  the  failure  of  the  Earl  of  Strafford 
to  repress  it ;  and  on  the  King's  return  to  London,  which  had 
not  long  taken  place.      Several  gentlemen  present  had  been 
with  the  army,  and  spoke  of  the  insubordination  among  the 
officers,  especially  such  as  had  been  Parliament  men.     The  elec- 
tions for  the  new  Parliament  were  expected  shortly  to  take 
place,  and  many  of  the  officers  were  deserting  from  the  army, 
and  coming  up  to  London  and  other  places  to  secure  their  return. 
The  utmost  dissatisfaction  and  insubordination  prevailed  over 
the  whole  country,  for  Laud  and  Strafford,  after  exciting  the 
animosity  of  the  people,  had  proved  themselves  weak,  and  the 
people  began  to  despise  as  well  as  hate  them — not  perceiving 
that  this  probably  proved  that  they  were  not  the  finished  tyrants 
they  were  supposed  to  be.     Strafford's  army,  raised  by  himself, 
having  proved  powerless  against  the  Scots  and  insubordinate 
against  its  master,  the  popular  party  was  encom-aged  to  attack 
him,  whom  they  hated  as  much  as  ever,  though  they  began  to 
fear  him  less.      The  violent  excitement  of  the  popular  party 
against  the  High  Chiurchmen  and  against  ceremonies  was  also  a 
subject  of  conversation.     The  wildest  rumoiu-s  were  prevalent 
as  to  the  probable  conduct  of  the  new  Parliament,  but  all  agreed 
that  the  Lord  Lieutenant  and  the  Archbishop,  and  probably  the 
Lord  Keeper,  would  be  impeached.      After  dinner  the  Arch- 
bishop rose  from  table,  and  retired  into  one  of  the  windows,  at 
the  upper  end  of  the  hall,  overlooking  the  river,  requesting 
Inglesant,  to  whom  he  pointed  out  the  beauties  of  the  view,  to 
follow  him.     Having  done  this,  he  said  a  few  words  to  him  in 
a  low  voice,  explaining  his  regret  at  the  difference  which  had 
arisen  between  himself  and  the  Queen,  whose  most  faithful 
servant  he  protested  he  had  ever  been,  and  whom  he  was  most 
desirous  to  please.     He  then  went  on  to  say  that  he  both  could 
and  intended  to  inform  Her   Majesty  of  this  through  other 
channels  than  Mr.  Inglesant,  though  he  bespoke  his  good  offices 
therein ;  but  he  wished  principally  to  speak  to  him  of  another 
matter,  which  would  require  privacy  to  explain  fully  to  him ; 
but  thus  far  he  would  say,  that  although  he  had  always  been  a 
true  servant  of  the  Chiu-ch  of  England,  and  had  never  enter- 
tained any  thoughts  inconsistent  with   such  fidelity,   yet   he 
believed  the  Roman  Catholics  were  aware  that  he  had  always 
behaved  with  great  toleration  to  them,  and  had  always-  enter- 
tained a  great  respect  for  their  religion,  refusing  to  allow  it  to 


CHAr.  VI.]  A  ROMANCE.  73 

be  abused  or  described  as  Antichrist  in  the  English  pulpits; 
that  it  was  notorious  that  he  had  excited  the  enmity  of  the 
popular  party  by  this  conduct;  and  that  whatever  he  might 
suffer  under  the  new  Parliament  would  be  in  consequence  of  it. 
He  was  aware  that  Mr.  Inglesant  was  in  the  confidence  of  that 
party,  and  especially  the  particular  friend  of  Father  Hall,  the 
leader  of  the  most  powerful  section  of  it ;  and  he  entreated  his 
services  to  bring  the  Jesuit  and  himself  to  some  understanding 
and  concerted  action,  whereby,  at  least,  they  might  ward  oif  some 
of  the  blows  that  would  be  aimed  at  them.  The  Archbishop 
said  that  many  of  the  wisest  politicians  considered  that  the  two 
parties  who  would  divide  the  stage  between  them  would  be  the 
popular  party  and  the  Papists ;  and  if  this  were  really  the  case 
(though  he  himself  thought  that  the  loyal  Church  party  would 
prove  stronger  than  was  thought)  it  was  evident  that  Mr.  Ingle- 
sant's  friend  would  be  well  able  to  return  any  kindness  that  the 
Archbishop  had  shown  the  Romanists. 

Inglesant  went  to  the  Jesuit  as  soon  as  possible,  and  related 
his  interview  with  the  Archbishop.  Father  Hall  listened  to  it 
with  great  interest. 

"  He  has  been  like  a  true  ecclesiastic,"  he  said,  "  blind  to 
facts  while  he  was  in  the  com'se  of  his  power,  astonished  and 
confounded  when  the  natural  results  arrive.  Nevertheless,  I 
fancy  he  will  make  a  good  fight,  or  at  least  a  good  ending. 
The  people  know  not  what  they  want,  and  might  have  been  led 
easily,  but  it  is  too  late.  What  was  the  real  amount  of  tyranny 
and  persecution  the  people  sufi"ered  1  The  Church  ofiicers  were 
blamed  on  the  one  hand  for  not  putting  the  laws  in  force  against 
the  Papists,  and  on  the  other,  for  putting  them  in  force  against 
the  Puritans;  However,  he  has  a  right  view  of  the  power  of 
the  Church  party,  in  which  I  join  him.  We  shall  see  the  good 
fight  they  will  make  for  the  King  yet.  The  gentry  and  chivalry 
of  England  are  rather  rusty  for  want  of  use,  but  we  shall  see 
the  metal  they  are  made  of  before  long.  However,  the  Catholics* 
will  be  ready  first,  are  ready  in  fact  now,  and  I  have  great  hopes 
of  the  use  that  we  shall  make  of  these  opportunities.  I  am 
much  mistaken  if  such  a  chance  as  we  shall  have  before  many 
months  are  over  will  not  be  greater  than  we  have  had  for  a 
century.  I  shall  count  on  you.  We  have  been  long  delayed,  and 
you  must  have  thought  all  oiu-  pains  would  come  to  nothing  :  but 
we  must  have  long  patience  if  we  enter  on  the  road  of  politics. 


74  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap.  VL 

"You  are  now,"  said  the  Jesuit,  "embracing  the  cause  full 
of  enthusiasm  and  zeal,  and  this  is  very  well ;  how  else  could 
•we  run  out  the  race,  unless  we  began  with  some  little  firel 
But  this  wi.ll  not  last,  and  unless  you  are  warned,  you  may  be 
offended  and  fall  away.     AVhen  you  have  lived  longer  in  this 
world  and  outlived  the  enthusiastic  and  pleasing  illusions  of 
youth,  you  will  find  yoiu:  love  and  pity  for  the  race  increase  / 
tenfold,  your  admiration  and  attachment  to  any  particular  party  I 
or  opinion  fall  away  altogether.     You  will  not  find  the  royal  | 
cause  perfect  any  more  than  any  other,  nor  those  embarked  in  | 
it  free  from  mean  and  sordid  motives,  though  you  think  now 
that  all  of  them  act  from  the  noblest.     This  is  the  most  import- 
ant lesson  that  a  man  can  learn — that  all  men  are  really  alike ; 
that  all  creeds  and  opinions  are  notliing  but  the  mere  result  of 
chance  and  temperament ;  that  no  party  is  on  the  whole  better 
than  another ;  that  no  creed  does  more  than  shadow  imperfectly 
forth  some  one  side  of  truth ;  and  it  is  only  when  you  begin  to  | 
Bee  this  that  you  can  feel  that  pity  for  mankind,  that  sympathy 
with  its  disappointments  and  follies,  and  its  natural  human 
hopes,  which  have  such  a  little  time  of  growth,  and  such  a  siu-e 
season  of  decay. 

"I  have  seen  nothing  more  pathetic  than  touches  in  the 
life  of  some  of  these  Puritans — men  who  have,  as  they  thought 
in  obedience  to  the  will  of  the  Deity,  denied  themselves  pleasure 
" — human  pleasm'e — through  their  lives,  and  now  and  then  some 
old  song,  some  pleasant  natural  tale  of  love  flashes  across  their 
path,  and  the  true  human  instinct  of  the  sons  of  Adam  lights 
up  within  them. 

"  Nothing  but  the  Infinite  pity  is  sufficient  for  the  infinite 
pathos  of  human  life. 

"  As  you  know,  we  have  many  parties  in  our  Church,  nay, 

in  our  own  order :  diff'erent  members  may  be  sent  on  opposing 

missions ;  but  it  is  no  matter,  they  are  all  alike.     Hereafter  it 

will  be  of  Httle  importance  which  of  these  new  names,  Cavalier 

or  Roundhead,  you  are  called  by,  whether  you  turn  Papist  or 

Puritan,   Jesuit  or  Jansenist,  but  it  will  matter  very  much 

whether  you  acted  as  became  a  man,  and  did  not  flinch  ignobly 

at  the  moment  of  trial.      Choose  your  part  from  the  instinct  of 

I  your  order,  from  your  birth,  or  from  habit  or  what  not ;  but 

f  having  chosen  it,  follow  it  to  th3  end.     Stand  by  your  party  or 

I  your  order,  and  especially  in  the  hour  of  trial  or  danger  be  sura 


CHAP.  VI.]  A  ROMANCE.  75 

'you  never  falter ;  for,  be  certain  of  this,  that  no  misery  can  be 
equal  to  that  which  a  man  feels  who  is  conscious  that  he  has 
proved  unequal  to  his  part,  who  has  deserted  the  post  his  cap- 
tain set  him,  and  who,  when  men  said  *  such  and  such  a  one  is 
there  on  guard,  there  is  no  need  to  take  further  heed,'  has  left 
his  watch  or  quailed  before  the  foeman,  to  the  loss,  perhaps  the 
total  ruin,  of  the  cause  he  had  made  his  choice.  I  pray  God 
that  such  misery  as  this  may  never  be  yours." 

The  elections  being  over,  ^London  became  very  fulL  The 
now  members  hastened  up.  The  nobility  and  country  gentry 
came  crowding  in,  and  all  the  new^  houses  in  the  Strand  and 
Charing  Cross  were  occupied,  and  a  throng  of  young  Cavaliers 
filled  the  courts  and  precincts  of  the  palace.  As  soon  as  the 
King  arrived,  Inglesant  went  into  waiting  in  his  new  post,  in 
which  great  responsibility  in  the  keeping  of  the  roj^al  household, 
especially  at  night,  devolved  upon  him.  His  post  came  immedi- 
ately after  that  of  the  gentlemen  of  the  privy  chamber,  with 
whom  the  immediate  attendance  on  the  person  of  the  King 
stopped,  but  the  charge  of  the.  King's  rooms  brought  him  con- 
tinually into  the  royal  presence. 

As  soon  as  the  Parliament  met,  the  impeachment  of  Straf- 
ford began ;  and  as  it  proceeded,  the  excitement  grew  more  and 
more  intense.  It  was  not  safe  for  the  courtiers  to  go  into  the 
city,  except  in  numbers  together,  and  a  com-t  of  guard  was  kept 
by  the  Cavaliers  before  Whitehall  towards  Charing  Cross. 

One  day  Inglesant  received  a  letter  from  the  Jesuit,  whom 
he  seldom  saw,  as  follows  : — 

"Jack,  tell  your  friend  the  Archbishop,  that  Lambeth 
House  will  be  attacked  two  nights  from  this,  by  a  rabble  of 
the  populace.  The  Parliament  leaders  will  not  be  seen  in  this, 
but  they  can  be  felt.  Biun  this,  but  let  the  Archbishop  know 
the. hand  from  which  it  comes." 

On  receiving  this  warning  the  Archbishop  fortified  his  house, 
and  crossed  the  water  to  his  chamber  in  Whitehall,  where  he 
slept  that  night  and  two  others  following.  His  house  was 
attai^lced  by  a  mob  of  five  hmidred  men ;  one  of  them  was 
woundo*-!  and  afterwards  executed ;  not  much  damage  was  done. 
History  can  fm-nish  few  events  so  startling  and  remarkable  as 
the  trial  and  death  of  Lord  Strafford — events  which,  the  more 
they  are  studied  the  more  wonderful  they  appear.  It  is  not  easy 
to  find  words  to  express  the  miserable  weakness  and  want  of 


76  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [cHAP.  TI 

statesmanship  which  led  to,  and  made  possible,  such  an  event ; 
and  one  is  almost  equally  surprised  at  the  comparatively  few  traces 
of  the  sensation  and  consternation  that  such  an  event  must  have 
produced.  I  am  not  speaking  of  the  justice  or  the  injustice  of  the 
sentence,  nor  of  the  crime  or  innocence  of  the  accused,— I  speak 
only  of  a  great  minister  and  servant  of  the  Crown,  in  whose 
policy  and  support  the  whole  of  the  royal  power,  the  whole 
strength  of  the  national  establishment,  was  involved  and  pledged. 
That^such  a  man,  by  the  simple  clamour  of  popular  opinion, 
should  have  been  arrested,  tried,  and  executed  in  a  few  days, 
with  no  effort  but  the  most  degrading  and  puny  one  made  on 
his  behalf  by  his  royal  master  and  friend,  certainly  must  have 
produced  a  terror  and  excitement,  one  would  think,  unequalled 
in  history.  That  the  King  never  recovered  from  it  is  not  sur- 
prising ;  one  would  have  thought  he  would  never  liave  held  up 
his  head  again.  That  the  royal  party  was  amazed  and  con- 
founded is  not  wonderfid;  one  would  have  thought  it  would 
have  been  impossible  ever  to  have  formed  a  royal  party  after- 
wards. That  there  was  no  power  in  the  country  able  to  protect 
either  the  Lords  or  the  Monarch  in  the  discharge  of  their  con- 
science seems  too  strange  to  be  believed. 

It  was  two  nights  after  the  execution.  The  guard  was  set 
at  Whitehall  and  the  "all  night"  served  up.  The  word  for 
the  night  was  given,  and  the  whole  palace  was  considered  as 
under  the  sole  command  of  Inglesant,  as  the  esquire  in  waiting. 
He  had  been  round  to  the  several  gates  and  seen  that  the  com-ts 
and  anterooms  were  quiet  and  clear  of  idlers,  and  then  came  up 
into  the  anteroom  outside  the  privy  chamber,  and  sat  do^vn 
alone  before  the  fire.  In  the  room  beyond  him  were  two  gentle- 
men of  the  privy  chamber,  who  slept  in  small  beds  drawn  across 
the  door  opening  into  the  royal  bedchamber  beyond.  The  King 
was  in  his  room,  in  bed,  but  not  asleep ;  Lord  Abergavenny,  the 
gentleman  of  the  bedchamber  in  waiting,  was  reading  Shake- 
speare to  him  before  he  slept.  Inglesant  took  out  a  little  volume 
of  the  classics,  of  the  series  printed  in  Holland,  which  it  was 
the  custom  of  the  gentlemen  of  the  Court,  and  those  attached 
to  great  nobles,  to  carry  with  them  to  read  in  antechambers 
while  ill  waiting.  The  night  was  perfectly  still,  and  the  whole 
palace  wrapped  in  a  profound  quiet  that  was  almost  oppressive 
to  one  who  happened  to  be  awake.  Inglesant  could  not  read ; 
the  event  that  had  just  occurred,  the  popular  tumults,  the  shock 


CHAP.  VI.]  A  ROMANCE.  7i 

of  feeling  which  the  royal  party  had  sustained,  the  fear  and  un- 
certainty of  the  future,  filled  his  thoughts.  The  responsibility 
of  his  post  sat  on  him  to-night  like  a  niglitmare,  and  with  very 
unusual  force  :  a  sense  of  approaching  terinr  in  the  midst  of  the 
intense  silence  fascinated  him  and  became  almost  insupportable. 
His  fancy  filled  his  mind  with  images  of  some  possible  oversight 
and  of  some  unseen  danger  which  might  be  liu-king  even  then 
in  the  precincts  of  the  vast  rambling  palace.  Gradually,  how- 
ever, all  these  images  became  confused  and  the  sense  of  terror 
didled,  and  he  was  on  the  point  -of  falling  asleep  when  he  was 
startled  by  the  ringing  sound  of  arms  and  the  challenge  of  the 
yeoman  of  the  guard,  on  the  landing  outside  the  door.  The 
next  instant  a  voice,  calm  and  haughty,  which  sent  a  tremor 
through  every  nerve,  gave  back  the  word,  "  Christ."  Inglesant 
started  up  and  grasped  the  back  of  his  chair  in  terror. 

Gracious  Heaven  !  who  was  this  that  knew  the  word  1  In 
another  moment  the  hangings  across  the  door  were  drawn  sharply 
back,  and  with  a  qmck  step,  as  one  who  went  straight  to  where 
he  was  expected  and  had  a  right  to  be,  the  intruder  entered  the 
antechamber.  It  wore  the  form  and  appearance  of  Strafford — 
it  was  Strafford — -in  dress,  and  mien,  and  step.  Taking  no  heed 
of  Inglesant,  crouched  back  in  terror  against  the  carved  chimney- 
piece,  the  apparition  crossed  the  room  with  a  quick  step,  drew 
the  hangings  that  screened  the  door  of  the  privy  chamber,  and 
disappeared.  Inglesant  recovered  in  a  moment,  sprang  across 
the  room,  and  followed  the  figiu-e  through  the  door.  He  saw 
nothing ;  but  the  two  gentlemen  raised  themselves  from  their 
couches,  startled  by  his  sudden  appearance  and  white,  scared 
look,  and  said,  "  What  is  it,  Mr.  Esquire  1 " 

Before  Inglesant,  who  stood  with  eyes  and  mouth  open,  the 
picture  of  terror,  could  recover  himself,  the  cm-tain  of  the  bed- 
chamber was  drawn  hastily  back,  and  the  Lord  Abergavenny 
suddenly  appeared,  saying  in  a  hiu-ried,  startled  voice  : — 

"  Send  for  Mayern ;  send  for  Dr.  Mayern,  the  King  is  taken 
very  Jl!" 

Inglesant,  who  by  this  time  was  recovered  sufficiently  to  act, 
seized  the  opportimity  to  escape,  and,  hm-rying  through  the  ante- 
chamber and  down  the  staircase  to  the  guard-room,  he  found 
one  of  the  pages,  and  despatched  him  for  the  Com^t  physician. 
He  then  returned  to  the  guard  at  the  top  of  the  staircase. 

"Has  any  one  passed?"  he  asked. 


78  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [cHAP.  TL 

"No,"  the  man  said;  "he  had  seen  no  one.** 

"Bid  you  challenge  no  one  a  moment  ago*?" 

The  man  looked  scared,  but  finally  acknowledged  what  he 
feared  at  first  to  confess,  lest  it  should  be  thought  he  had  been 
sleeping  at  his  post,  that  he  had  become  suddenly  conscious  of,  as 
it  seemed  to  him,  some  presence  in  the  room,  and  found  himself 
the  next  moment,  to  his  confusion,  challenging  the  empty  space. 

Failing  to  make  anything  of  the  man,  Inglesant  retmiied  to 
the  privy  chamber,  where  Lord  Abergavenny  was  relating  what 
had  occurred. 

"  I  was  reading  to  the  King,"  he  repeated,  "  and  His  Majesty 
was  very  still,  and  I  began  to  tliink  he  was  falling  asleep,  when 
he  suddenly  started  upright  in  bed,  grasped  the  book  on  my 
knee  with  one  hand,  and  with  the  other  pointed  across  the 
chamber  to  some  object  upon  which  his  gaze  was  fixed  with  a 
wild  and  horror-stricken  look,  while  he  faintly  tried  to  cry  out. 
In  a  second  the  terror  of  the  sight,  whatever  it  was,  overcame 
him,  and  he  fell  back  on  the  bed  with  a  sharp  cry." 

"Mr.  Inglesant  saw  something,"  said  both  the  gentlemen 
at  once ;  "he  came  in  here  as  you  gave  the  alarm." 

"  I  saw  nothing,"  said  Inglesant ;  "  whatever  frightened  me 
I  must  tell  the  King." 

Dr.  Mayern,  who  lodged  in  the  palace,  soon  arrived  ;  and  as 
the  King  was  sensible  when  he  came,  he  merely  prescribed  some 
soothing  drink,  and  soon  left.  The  moment  he  was  gone  the 
King  called  Abergavenny  into  the  room  alone  to  him,  and  ques- 
tioned him  as  to  what  had  occurred.  Abergavenny  told  him  all 
he  knew,  addmg  that  the  esquire  in  waiting,  Mr.  Inglesant,  was 
believed  to  have  seen  something  by  the  gentlemen  of  the  privy 
chamber,  whom  he  had  aroused.  Inglesant  was  sent  for,  and 
found  the  King  and  Abergavenny  alone.  He  declined  to  speak 
before  the  latter,  until  the  King  positively  commanded  him  to 
do  so.  Deadly  pale,  with  his  eyes  on  the  gi-ound,  and  speaking 
Tvdth  the  greatest  difficidty,  he  then  told  his  story ;  of  the  deep 
silence,  his  restlessness,  the  sentry's  challenge,  and  the  appari- 
tion that  appeared.     Here  he  stopped. 

"  And  this  figure,"  said  Abergavenny  in  a  startled  whisper, 
"  did  you  know  who  it  was  V 

"  Yes,  I  knew  him,"  said  the  young  man ;  "  would  to  God 
I  had  not." 

"Who  was  it  1" 


CHAP.  VII.]  A  ROMANCE.  79 

Paler,  if  possible,  than  before,  and  with  a  violent  effort, 
Inglesant  forced  himself  to  look  at  the  King. 

A  contortion  of  pain,  short  but  terrible  to  see,  passed  over 
the  King's  face,  but  he  rose  from  the  chair  in  which  he  sat  (for 
he  had  risen  from  the  bed  and  even  dressed  himself),  and,  with 
that  commanding  dignity  which  none  ever  assumed  better  than 
he,  he  said, — 

"Who  was  it,  Mr.  Esquire?" 

"My  Lord  Strafford." 

Abergavenny  stepped  back  several  paces,  and  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands.  No  one  spoke.  Inglesant  dared  not  stir, 
but  remained  opposite  to  the  King,  trembling  in  every  hmb, 
and  his  eyes  upon  the  ground  like  a  culprit.  The  King^  con- 
tinued to  stand  with  his  commanding  ah',  but  stiff  and  rigid  as 
a  statue ;  it  seemed  as  though  he  had  strength  to  command  his 
outward  demeauoiu",  but  no  power  besides. 

The  silence  gTew  terrible.  At  last  the  King  was  able  to 
make  a  slight  motion  with  his  hand.  Inglesant  seized  the 
opportunity,  and,  bowing  to  the  ground,  retired  backward  to 
the  door.  As  he  closed  the  door  the  King  tiu-ned  towards 
Abergavenny,  but  the  room  was  empty.  The  King  was  left 
alone. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

In  the  beginning  of  1642  the  King  left  Whitehall  finally,  and 
retired  with  the  Queen  to  Hampton  Court,  from  which  he  went 
to  the  south  to  see  Her  Majesty  embark,  and  without  returning 
to  London  proceeded  to  the  north.  Very  few  attendants 
accompanied  him,  and  Inglesant  was  left  at  liberty  to  go  where 
he  pleased.  His  brother  was  in  France,  and  he  was  at  the 
moment  ignorant  where  the  Jesuit  was.  Several  motives  led 
him  to  go  to  Gidding,  where  he  felt  siu-e  of  a  welcome,  though 
Mr.  Ferrar  was  dead,  and  he  accordingly  rode  there  in  the  end 
of  March.  Mr.  Nicholas  Ferrar  jun.  had  been  dead  nearly  a 
year,  having  not  long  survived  his  uncle,  and  the  household  was 
governed  by  Mr.  John  Ferrar,  Mr.  Nicholas  Ferrar's  brother. 
Their  usual  quiet  and  holy  life  seemed  quieter  and  more  holy ; 
a  placid  melancholy  and  a  sort  of  contented  sorrow  seemed  to 
fill  the  place,  which  was  not  disturbed  even  by  those  expectar 


fiO  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  fcHAP.  vn. 

tions  of  approaching  trouble  and  danger  which  all  felt.  They 
received  Inglesant  with  kindness  and  even  affection,  and 
begged  him  to  remain  as  long  as  he  pleased.  Mary  Collet, 
who,  secretly  he  acknowledged  to  himself,  was  the  principal 
reason  of  his  coming  down,  met  him  frankly,  and  seemed  more 
attractive  and  beautifid  than  before.  He  felt  awed  and  quieted 
in  her  presence,  yet  nothing  was  so  delightful  to  him  as  to  be 
in  the  room  or  garden  with  her,  and  hear  her  speak.  He  en- 
deavoured to  assist  her  in  her  work  of  attending  to  the  poor 
and  sick,  and  in  tending  the  garden,  and  became  like  a  brother 
to  her,  without  saying  or  desiring  to  say  one  word  of  gallantry 
or  of  love.  The  Puritans  of  the  neighboming  towns,  who  had 
always  disliked  the  Ferrars,  came  more  frequently  into  their 
neighboiu-hood,  and  endeavoured  to  set  the  country  people 
against  them,  and  even  to  stir  them  up  to  acts  of  violence ;  but 
the  Ferrars  remarked  that  these  annoyances  were  lessened  by 
the  efforts  of  a  Pmitan  gentleman,  who  was  possessed  of  con- 
siderable property  in  Peterborough,  and  who  had  latterly  taken 
advantage  of  several  excuses  to  come  to  Little  Gidding. 

Inglesant  saw  this  gentleman  once  or  twice,  and  became 
rather  attracted  towards  him  in  a  strange  way.  He  appeared 
to  him  to  be  a  man  in  whom  a  perpetual  struggle  was  going  on 
between  his  real  nature  and  the  system  of  religion  which  he 
had  adopted,  but  in  whom  the  original  natm-e  had  been  subdued 
and  nearly  extinguished,  until  some  event,  apparently  of  recent 
occiu-rence,  had  renewed  this  conflict,  ^nd  excited  the  conquered 
human  nature  once  more  to  rebellion.  This  alone  would  have 
afforded  sufficient  interest  and  attraction  to  a  man  of  Ingle- 
sant's  temperament;  but  this  interest  was  increased  tenfold 
when  he  perceived,  as  he  did  very  soon,  that  this  distm-bing 
event  and  the  reason  which  brought  Mr.  Thorne  to  Gidding 
were  in  fact  one  and  the  same,  the  same  indeed  which  brought 
himself  there— attraction  to  Mary  Collet.  The  peaceful  half- 
reUgious  devotion  with  which  he  regarded  his  friend  prevented 
him  from  being  incited  to  any  feeling  of  jealousy  by  this  dis- 
covery, and  indeed  would  have  made  the  idea  of  such  a  senti- 
ment and  opposition  almost  ridiculous.  He  treated  Mr.  Thorne, 
when  they  met  at  table  or  elsewhere,  with  the  most  marked 
courtesy — a  courtesy  which  the  other  very  imperfectly  retm'ned, 
at  first  ignoring  Inglesant  altogether,  and  when  this  was  no 
longer  possible,  taking  every  opportunity  to  reprove  and  lectm-e 


CHAP.  VII.]  A  ROMANCE.  8 1 

him  in  the  way  the  Puritans  took  upon  them  to  do,  all  of  which 
Inglesant  bore  good-humoiiredly.  Things  had  gone  on  this 
way  for  several  weeks,  and  Mr.  Thome's  visits  had  grown  less 
frequent,  when  one  summer  afternoon  he  rode  over,  and  after 
seeing  Mr.  John  Ferrar,  came  to  seek  Mary  Collet.  He  found 
her  and  Inglesant  alone  in  one  of  the  small  reading  parlours 
looking  on  the  garden.  Inglesant  had  been  reading  aloud  in 
Mr.  Crashaw's  poems;  but  on  the  other's  entering  the  room, 
he  rose  and  stood  behind  Mary  Collet's  chair,  his  hand  resting 
on  the  high  back.  His  attitude  probably  annoyed  Mr.  Thome, 
whose  manner  was  more  severe  and  steJBk  than  usual.  He  made 
the  lady  a  formal  greeting,  and  took  slight  heed  of  Inglesant, 
who  wished  him  Good-day. 

"  The  days  are  far  from  good,  sir,"  he  said  severely,  "  and 
the  night  of  the  soul  is  dark ;  nevertheless,  there  is  a  path 
open  to  the  saints  of  God,  which  will  lead  to  a  brighter  time." 

He  looked  hard  at  Mary  Collet  as  he  spoke.    . 

*'I  shoidd  hope,  sir,"  said  Inglesant,  with  a  conciliatory 
smile,  "that  you  and  I  may  one  day  stand  together  in  a 
brighter  da^m." 

The  other's  face  slightly  softened,  for  indeed  the  indescrib- 
able charm  of  Inglesant's  manner  few  could  resist,  but  he  hard- 
ened himself  instantly,  and  repHed, — 

"  It  is  a  fond  hope,  sir.  How  can  two  walk  together  unless 
they  are  agreed  1  What  fellowship  is  there  between  the  saints 
(however  imworthy)  and  the  followers  of  the  pleasures  of  this 
world  1  And  how  may  you,  on  whom  the  Prince  of  this  world 
has  bestowed  every  brilliant  gift  and  power,  stand  at  the  resiu:- 
rection  amongst  the  poor  and  despised  saints  of  God "?" 

Mary  Collet  moved  slightly,  and  put  her  hand  back  upon 
the  chair  elbow,  so  that  it  partly  and  slightly  touched  Ingle- 
sant's hand,  at  which  movement,  a  spasm,  as  of  pain,  passed 
over  Mr.  Thome's  featiues,  and  he  drew  himself  up  more  sternly 
than  before. 

"But  I  am  idling  my  time  vainly  and  sinfully  here,"  he 
said,  "in  chambering  and  wantonness,  when  I  should  be  buck- 
ling on  my  armoiu.  Mistress  Collet,  I  came  here  to  wish  you 
farewell.  I  am  going  to  London  in  the  good  cause,  and  I  shall 
in  all  human  probability  never  see  you  more.  I  entreat  you  to 
listen  to  the  bridegToom's  voice,  and  from  my  heart  I  wish  you 
God-speed." 


82  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap.  Vll. 

As  she  rose,  he  pressed  her  hand  lightly,  and  raised  his  eyes 
to  heaven,  as  the  Puritans  were  ridiculed  for  doing ;  tlien  he 
bowed  stiffly  to  Inglcsant,  and  was  gone. 

Inglesant  followed  him  to  the  coiu'tyard,  where  his  horses 
were  standing,  but  he  took  no  fui'ther  notice  of  him,  and  rode, 
off  through  the  gate.  Johnny  stood  looking  after  him  down  the 
alley,  between  the  latticed  walks  of  the  garden.  At  last  he 
stopped  and  looked  back.  When  he  saw  Inglesant  still  there, 
he  seemed  to  hesitate,  but  finally  dismounted  and  led  his  horse 
back.  Inglesant  hastened  to  meet  him,  with  his  illumed  hat 
in  his  hand. 

"  Mr.  Inglesant,"  said  the  Piu-itan,  speaking  slowly  and  with 
evident  hesitation,  "  I  am  going  to  say  something  which  will 
probably  make  you  regard  with  increased  contempt  not  only 
myself,  which  you  may  well  do,  but  the  religion  which  I  profess 
to  serve,  but  which  I  betray,  in  which  last  you  will  commit  a 
fatal  sin.  But  before  I  say  it,  I  beg  of  you,  if  a  few  moments 
ago  I  said  anything  that  was  unnecessarily  severe  and  more  than 
my  Master  would  warrant,  that  you  will  forgive  it.  Woe  be 
to  us  if  we  falter  in  the  truth,  and  speak  pleasant  things  when 
we  shoidd  set  our  face  as  a  flint ;  nevertheless,  there  is  no  need 
for  us  to  go  beyond  the  letter  of  the  Spirit,  and  I  almost  feel 
that  the  Lord  has  disowned  my  speech,  seeing  that  so  soon  after 
I  fear  I  myself  am  fallen  from  grace." 

He  stopped,  and  Inglesant  wondered  what  this  long  pre 
amble  might  mean. 

He  assured  him  that  he  bore  no  ill-feeling,  but  very  much 
the  contrary ;  but  the  Pm-itan  scarcely  allowed  him  to  finish 
before  he  began  again  to  speak,  with  still  greater  difficulty  and 
hesitation. 

"  I  came  here  to-day,  sir,  with  the  intention  at  which  I  have 
arrived,  not  without  long  wrestHng  in  prayer,  of  proposing  in 
the  Lord's  name  a  treaty  of  marriage  with  Mrs.  Mary  Collet. 
In  this  I  have  sought  direction,  as  I  say,  for  a  long  time  before 
addressing  her.  At  length,  yesterday,  sitting  all  alone,  I  felt  a 
word  sweetly  arise  in  me  as  if  I  heard  a  voice,  which  said,  '  Go 
and  prevail !'  and  faith  springing  in  my  heart  with  the  word,  I 
immediately  arose  and  went,  nothing  doubting.  But  when  I 
came  into  her  presence,  and  found  her  with  you,  upon  whom  I 
have  ofttimes  apprehended  that  her  afiections  were  fixed ;  when 
I  thought  of  the  disadvantage  at  which  doubtless,  in  the  world's" 


CHAP.  VII.]  A  EOMANCE,  83 

eye  at  least,  I  should  be  thought  to  stand  with  regard  to  you ; 
when  I  considered  her  breeding  and  education  in  every  sort  of 
prelatical  and  papistical  superstition — which  latter  has  all 
through  been  a  great  stumbling-block  to  me,  and  to  some  others 
of  the  godly  to  whom  I  have  opened  this  matter ; — when  I 
thought  of  these  things,  I,  wretched  man  that  I  am !  I  mis- 
trusted the  Lord's  power.  I  was  deaf  to  the  voice  that  spoke 
within  me,  and  I  left  my  message  unsaid.  What  my  sin  is  in 
this  cannot  be  told.  It  may  be  that  I  have  frustrated  the 
Lord's  will  and  purpose  with  regard  to  her,  not  only  as  regards 
calling  her  out  of  that  empty  show  and  profession  in  which  she 
is,  but,  which  doubtless  will  seem  of  more  force  to  you,  of  pro- 
viding her  with  some  refuge  from  the  storm  which  assuredly  is 
not  far  from  this  household.  I  have  already,  if  you  wiU  believe 
me,  done  something  in  warding  off  the  first  advances  of  that 
storm,  and  think  I  do  not  deceive  myself  that  I  have  power 
sufiicient  to  continue  to  do  so.  I  entreat  you,  Mr.  Inglesant, 
to  think  of  this,  if  you  have  not  yet  done  so,  for  her  sake,  and 
not  for  mine."  He  spoke  these  last  words  in  a  different 
manner,  and  with  an  altered  voice,  as  though  they  were  not 
part  of  what  he  had  originally  intended  to  say,  but  had  been 
forced  from  him  by  the  spectacle  his  mind  presented  of  danger 
to  her  whom  it  was  evident  he  unselfishly  loved.  "I  am  not 
so  ignorant  in  the  world's  ways,"  he  went  on,  "  as  not  to  know 
how  absm-d  such  an  appeal  to  you  must  seem ;  probably  it  wiU 
afford  amusement  to  your  friends  in  after  days.  Nevertheless 
I  cannot  refrain  myself.  I  am  distracted  between  two  opinions, 
and  as  I  rode  away  it  came  into  my  mind  that  I  might  after 
all  be  flying  away  from  a  shadow,  and  that  there  might  be  no 
such  relation  between  you  as  that  which  I  have  supposed — no 
other  than  that  of  a  free  and  fair  friendship ;  in  which  case  I 
entreat  you,  Mr.  Inglesant,  though  I  confess  I  have  no  right 
nor  claim  upon  you  even  for  the  commonest  courtesy,  to  let  me 
know  it." 

Inglesant  had  Hstened  to  this  singular  confession  at  first 
with  siu-prise,  but  as  the  man  went  on,  he  became  profoundly 
touched.  There  was  something  extremely  pathetic  in  the  sight 
of  the  human  natm-e  in  this  man  strugghng  within  him  beneath 
the  force  of  his  Pm-itanism,  the  one  now  urging  him  to  con- 
ciliate, and  the  next  moment  the  old  habit  breaking  out  in 
insult  and  denunciation ;  the  one  opening  to  him  glimpses  of 


84  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap.  VII. 

human  happiness  which  the  other  immediately  closed.  And 
what  he  said  was  doubtless  very  true,  and  pointed  plainly  to 
Inglesant  what  men  would  say  was  his  duty.  What  ground 
had  he  to  oppose  himself  to  this  man — he,  with  scarcely  any 
formed  purpose  of  his  own  1  If  the  lofty  Strafford  had  fallen, 
and  the  Archbishop  had  proved  powerless  to  protect  himself, 
how  was  he  to  protect  any  who  might  tru^t  to  him  1  Even  if 
he  had  thought  nothing  of  this,  it  would  have  been  impossible 
to  have  been  angry  with  the  distracted  man  before  him,  un- 
trained to  conceal  his  thoughts,  nay,  taught  by  his  religion  that 
self-restraint  or  concealment  is  a  sin,  and  that  to  keep  back  a 
word  or  a  thought  is  a  frustration  of  the  will  of  God — a  train- 
ing that  would  lay  him  open  at  every  p(|^nt  before  the  polished 
puj^il  of  the  Jesuit  and  the  Court. 

These  reflections  gave  to  his  ordinary  courtesy  an  additional 
charm,  which  plainly  commanded  the  confidence  of  his  rival, 
and  he  said, — '■ 

"  What  do  you  wish  me  to  do,  Mr.  Thorne  1  I  am  willing 
to  leave  everything  to  Mrs.  Collet's  decision." 

"  I  will  take  notiiing  on  myself  again,"  said  the  other ;  "  I 
will  leave  everything  in  the  Lord's  hands.  If  it  is  His  will 
that  we  be  brought  together,  we  shall  be  so  brought.  I  will 
not  stay  now — indeed  I  am  in  no  fit  state  of  mind — but  in  a 
few  days  I  wiU  come  again,  and  W'hatever  the  Lord  shall  do  in 
the  meanwhile.  His  will  be  done." 

The  inconsistency  of  this  last  resolution  with  the  denuncia- 
tion of  the  Ferrar  family,  and  especially  of  Inglesant,  which  he 
had  before  expressed,  struck  Inglesant  as  so  extraordinary  that 
he  began  to  doubt  the  sanity  of  his  companion ;  but  finding 
that  Mr.  Thorne  was  determined  to  go,  he  parted  from  him 
with  mutual  coiu-tesy,  and  returned  at  once  into  the  house. 

As  he  entered  the  room  where  Mary  Collet  was  still  sitting 
alone,  she  looked  up  with  a  smile,  and  was  about  to  speak,  no 
doubt  to  palliate  the  rudeness  of  their  guest ;  but  seeing  from 
his  manner  that  something  extraordinary  had  occurred,  she 
stopped,  and  Inglesant,  who  had  resolved  to  tell  her  all  that 
the  Pmitan  had  said,  began  at  once  and  related  simply,  and,  as 
dosely  as  he  could,  word  for  word,  what  had  happened.  As 
he  went  on,  the  sympathy  which  the  strange  conflict  he  had 
witnessed  in  the  other's  breist  had  excited  in  his  own,  and  the 
feeling  he  had  of  the  truth  of  the  other's  power  to  protect, 


CHAP.  VII.  3  A  ROMANCE.  85 

inspired  his  manner  sfl  that  he  spoke  well  and  eloquently  of  hia 
rival's  natm-e,  and  of  the  advantages  that  alliance  with  him 
would  bestow ;  but  hiinest  as  his  purpose  was,  no  course  more 
fatal  to  his  rival's  chance  could  probably  have  been  taken,  while 
at  the  same  time  he  seriously,  if  he  had  any  cause  himself, 
jeopardized  that  also. 

Mary  Collet  listened  with  ever-increasing  surprise,  and  the 
light  in  her  eyes  died  away  to  coldness  as  she  continued  to  look 
at  Inglesant.  Her  calm  look  suffered  no  other  change;  but 
that  acute  perception  which  Inglesant's  training  had  given  him 
■ — perception  which  the  purest  love  does  not  always  give  — 
showed  him  what  was  passing  in  his  friend's  mind ;  he  stopped 
suddenly  in  his  pleading,  and  knew  that  he  had  said  too  much 
not  to  say  more.  He  sank  on  the  ground  before  the  chair, 
and  rested  his  hands  upon  the  carved  elbow,  with  his  face,  to 
which  excitement  gave  increased  beauty,  raised  to  Mary  Collet's 
eyes. 

"It  is  all  true,  Mary,"  he  said.  It  was  the  first  time  he 
had  called  her  by  her  name,  and  it  sounded  so  sweetly  that  he 
said  it  again.  "It  is  all  true,  Mary ;  I  might  have  spoken  to 
you  of  another,  woidd  many  times  have  spoken,  if  all  this  had 
not  been  true.  As  he  said  to  me,  dark  days  are  coming  on, 
the  State  is  shaken  to  its  base,  the  highest  in  the  realm  are 
disgraced  and  ruined,  and  even  harried  to  death ;  what  will 
happen  the  wisest  heads  cannot  think ;  the  King  is  a  fugitive ; 
I  am  all  but  penniless,  should  be  homeless  but  for  you.  This 
even  is  not  all ;  if  it  had  been  I  might  have  spoken,  but  there 
is  more  which  must  be  told.  I  am  not  my  own.  I  am  but 
the  agent  of  a  miglity  will,  of  a  system  which  commands 
unhesitating  obedience — obedience  which  is  part  of  my  very 
being.  I  cannot  even  form  the  thought  of  violating  it.  This 
is  why,  often,  when  I  tried  to  speak,  my  tongue  refused  its 
oflSce,  my  conscience  roused  itself  to  keep  me  still.  But  if, 
happily  for  me,  I  have  been  wrong ;  if,  even  for  me,  the  gates 
of  heaven  may  still  open, — the  gates  that  I  have  thought  were 
inexorably  closed, — I  dare  not  face  the  radiance  that  even  now 
issues  through  the  opening  space.  Mary,  you  know  me  better 
than  I  know  myself;  I  am  ignorant  and  sinful  and  worldly; 
you  are  holy  as  a  saint  of  God.  Do  with  me  what  you  will,  if 
there  is  anything  in  me  worthy  of  you,  take  me  and  make  it 
more  worthy ;  if  not,  let  me  go :  either  way  I  am  yours — my 


86  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [chap  vil 

life  belongs  to  you — neither  life  nor  death  is  at  y  thing  to  me 
except  as  it  may  advantage  you." 

The  light  shone  fidl  on  Mary  Collet's  face,  looking  down  on 
him  as  he  spoke.  The  odoiu:  of  the  garden  flowers  filled  the 
room.  The  stillness  of  the  late  afternoon  was  mibroken,  save 
by  the  murmur  of  insect  life.  Her  eyes — those  wonderful  eyes 
that  had  first  attracted  him  in  the  Chm-ch — grew  larger  and 
more  soft  as  they  looked  down  on  him  with  a  love  and  tender- 
ness which  he  had  never  seen  before,  and  saw  only  once  again. 
For  some  seconds  she  did  not — perhaps  could  not — speak,  for 
the  great  lustrous  eyes  were  moist  with  tears.  He  would  have 
lain  there  for  ever  with  no  thought  but  of  those  kindly  eyes. 
At  last  she  spoke,  and  her  voice  was  tender,  but  low  and  calm ; 
*'  Johnny," — it  was  the  first  time  she  had  called  him  so,  and 
Bhe  said  it  twice, — "  Johnny,  3-ou  are  right,  I  know  you  better 
than  you  know  yourself.  Your  first  instinct  was  right ;  but  it 
was  not  your  poverty,  nor  the  distraction  of  the  time,  nor  yet 
this  mysterious  fate  that  governs  you,  which  kept  you  silent ; 
poverty  and  the  troubles  of  the  times  we  might  have  sufi"ered 
together ;  this  mysterious  fate  we  might  have  borne  together 
or  have  broken  through.  No,"  she  continued  with  a  radiant 
smile,  "  cavalier  and  coiurtier  as  you  are,  you  also,  in  spite  of 
Mr.  Thome,  have  heard  a  voice  behind  you  saying,  *  This  is  the 
way,  walk  in  it.'  That  way,  Johnny,  you  will  never  leave  for 
me.  As  this  voice  told  you,  this  is  not  a  time  for  us  to  spend 
our  moments  like  two  lovers  in  a  play ;  we  have  both  of  us 
other  work  to  do,  work  laid  out  for  us,  from  which  we  may  not 
shrink ;  a  path  to  walk  in  where  there  is  neither  marrying  nor 
giving  in  marriage.  As  for  me,  if  I  can  follow  in  any  degree 
in  the  holy  path  my  uncle  walked  in,  growing  more  into  the 
life  of  Jesus  as  he  grew  into  it,  it  is  enough  for  me ;  as  for  you, 
you  will  go  on  through  the  dark  days  that  are  at  hand,  as  your 
way  shall  lead  you,  and  as  the  divine  voice  shall  call;  and 
when  I  hear  your  name,  as  I  shall  hear  it,  Johnny,  foUoAving 
as  the  divine  call  shall  lead,  you  may  be  sure  that  my  heart 
will  beat  delightedly  at  the  name  of  a  very  noble  gentleman 
who  loves  me,  and  whom — I  love." 

The  evening  sun  that  lighted  all  the  place  went  down 
suddenly  behind  the  hedges  of  the  garden,  and  the  room  grew 
dark. 


CHAP.  VIII.]  A  ROMANCE.  87 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

The  mannor  of  lift  at  Gidding  went  on  after  this  without  the 
least  alteration,  and  Inglesant's  position  in  the  family  remained 
the  same.  Two  or  three  days  after,  Mr.  Thome  leturned,  and 
had  an  interview  with  Mary  Collet  alone.  She  told  him  she 
had  not  thought  of  marriage  with  any  one,  but  had  dedicated 
her  life  to  other  work.  He  attempted  a  flowing  discourse  upon 
the  evils  of  celibacy,  and  managed  to  destroy  by  his  manner 
much  of  the  kindly  feeling  which  Mary  had  conceived  for  him. 
He  met  John  Ferrar  and  Inglesant  coming  from  the  Church, 
and  Inglesant  tried  to  exchange  some  kindly  words  with  him  ; 
but  he  avoided  conversation  with  him,  and  soon  left.  Inglesant 
passed  most  of  his  time  (for  he  was  not  quite  so  much  with 
Mary  Collet  as  before)  in  reading,  especially  in  Greek,  and  in 
assisting  some  of  the  family  in  preparing  that  great  book  which 
was  afterwards  presented  to  Prince  Charles.  The  influence  of 
Mr.  Hobbes's  conversation  wore  off  in  the  peaceful  religious 
talk  and  way  of  life  of  this  family.  It  was  here  that  he  had 
first  obtained  glimpses  of  what  the  divine  life  might  be,  and  it 
was  here  alone  that  he  felt  any  power  of  approach  to  it  in  his 
own  heart.  His  love  for  Mary  Collet,  which  was  -increased 
tenfold  by  the  acknowledgment  she  had  made  to  him,  and  which 
grew  more  and  more  every  day  that  he  spent  at  Gidding,  asso- 
ciated as  it  was  with  all  the  teachings  and  incidents  of  these 
quiet  holy  days,  made  this  life  of  devotion  more  delightful  than 
can  be  told,  and,  indeed,  made  that  life  more  like  to  heaven 
than  any  other  that  Inglesant  ever  lived.  As  he  knelt  in 
Church  during  the  calm  hours  of  prayer,  and  now  and  again 
looked  up  into  Mary  Collet's  face  from  where  he  knelt,  he  often 
felt  as  though  he  had  found  the  Beatific  Vision  already,  and 
need  seek  no  more,  so  closely  was  her  beauty  connected  with 
ail  that  was  pure  and  holy  in  his  heart.  In  these  happy  days 
all  pride  and  trouble  seemed  to  have  left  him,  and  he  felt  free 
in  heart  from  all  self-will  and  sin.  It  was  a  dream,  and  unreal, 
doubtless ;  but  it  was  allowed  him  not  altogether  without 
design,  perhaps,  in  the  divine  counsel,  and  it  could  not  be 
without  fruit  in  his  spiritual  life. 

The  long  summer  days  that  passed  so  quietly  at  Gidding 


88  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap.  viil. 

were  days  of  disturbance  all  over  England,  the  King's  friends 
and  those  of  the  Parliament  endeavouring  to  secure  the  counties 
for  one  or  other  of  the  contending  parties.  Nearly  the  whole 
of  the  eastern  counties  were  so  strong  for  the  Parliament  that 
the  King's  friends  had  little  chance,  and  those  gentlemen  who 
attempted  to  raise  men  or  provide  arms  for  the  King  were 
crushed  in  the  beginning.  But  Huntingdonshire  was  more 
loyal,  and  considerable  preparation  had  been  made  by  several 
gentlemen,  among  others,  Sir  Capel  Beedel  and  Richard  Stone, 
the  High  Sheriff,  to  repair  to  the  King's  quarters  when  the 
standard  should  be  set  up.  Inglesant  was  waiting  to  hear  from 
his  brother,  who  had  returned  from  France,  and  was  in  Wilt- 
shire with  the  Lord  Pembroke,  who  had  set  in  force  the  com- 
mission of  array  in  that  county.  Inglesant  would  have  joined 
him  but  for  the  close  neighbourhood  of  the  King,  who  might  be 
expected  in  those  parts  every  day.  Accordingly,  one  afternoon, 
the  King,  accompanied  by  the  Prince,  afterwards  Charles  the 
Second,  and  the  Duke  of  Lennox,  and  by  Prince  Rupert,  whom 
some  called  the  Palsgrave  after  his  father,  came  to  Huntingdon. 
Inglesant  rode  into  Huntingdon  that  evening,  and  found  the 
King  playing  at  cards  with  the  Palsgrave.  The  King  received 
liini  graciously,  and  spoke  to  him  privately  of  Father  St.  Clare, 
who  had  latterly,  he  said,  been  very  active  among  the  Catholics 
of  Shropshire  and  Staffordshire,  from  whom  he  soon  expected  to 
receive  large  sums  of  money.  He  said  the  Jesuit  had  told  him 
where  Inglesant  was,  and  that  he  intended  on  the  iiext  day  to 
come  by  Little  Gidding  on  his  way,  and  should  spend  some 
hours  there,  as  he  was  very  desirous  again  to  see  a  place  which 
had  so  pleased  him,  and  of  whose  inmates  he  had  formed  so 
high  an  opinion  from  what  he  had  seen  of  them.  Inglesant 
slept  that  night  in  Huntingdon,  but  very  early  on  the  fine 
summer  morning  he  rode  out  to  Little  Gidding  to  warn  the 
family  of  the  honoiu-  that  was  intended  them.  Accordingly, 
about  noon,  they  saw  from  the  windows  of  the  house  the  royal 
party  approaching  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill.  The  whole  family 
went  out  to  meet  them  to  the  boundary  of  the  lordship,  at  a 
little  bridge  that  spans  the  brook. 

When  the  King  approached  foremost  of  all,  they  went  to 
meet  him,  and  kneeling  down,  prayed  God  to  bless  and  preserve 
His  Majesty,  and  keej)  him  safe  from  liis  enemies'  malice.  The 
King  rode  up  the  hill  at  a  foot  pace,  and  alighted  at  the  Chapel, 


CHAP.  VIII.]  A  ROMAN CR  89 

which  he  examined  carefully,  and  was  then  shown  over  the 
whole  house,  being  particularly  pleased  with  the  almshouses,       f} 
for  whose  inmates  he  left  five  pieces  <.f  gold,  saying  it  was        ' 
all  he  had.     He  had  won  them  from  the  Palsgrave  the  night 
before  at  cards. 

When  he  was  come  into  the  house,  the  gi'eat  book  that  was 
being  prepared  for  the  Prince  was  brought  him,  and  he  spent 
some  time  in  examining  it  and  admiring  the  prints  of  which  it 
Avas  full,  pointing  out  to  the  Palsgi-ave,  who  appeared  to  under- 
stand such  things,  the  different  style  of  each  engraver.  When 
he  had  sufficiently  admired  the  book,  and  walked  about  the 
house,  admiring  the  pleasant  situation  upon  a  Mttle  hill,  the 
Bun  beginning  to  go  down,  the  horses  were  brought  to  the  door, 
and  the  King  and  the  rest  moimted.  The  whole  family,  men 
and  women,  knelt  down  as  the  King  moimted,  and  prayed  God 
to  bless  and  defend  him  from  his  enemies,  and  give  him  a  long 
and  happy  reign.  "Ah!"  said  the  King,  raising  his  hat, 
"  pray  for  my  safe  and  speedy  return  again,"  and  so  rode  away, 
not  knowing  that  he  shoidd  retiu'u  there  again  once  more,  in 
the  very  dead  -of  night,  a  fugitive,  and  almost  alone. 

***** 

When  John  Inglesant  had  said  to  Mary  Collet  that  he  was 
almost  penniless,  he  had  used  rather  a  strong  hyperbole,  for 
at  that  time  the  smn  of  money  his  father  had  left  him  was 
almost  untouched.  Upon  leaving  London,  he  had  managed  to 
get  it  transferred  from  the  goldsmith  with  whom  he  had  de- 
posited it  to  another  at  Oxford,  by  a  bill  of  exchange  on  the 
latter,  as  was  the  custom  in  transmitting  sums  of  money  in 
those  days.  This  bill  being  now  due,  Inglesant  decided  on 
going  to  Oxford  to  seciu-e  possession  of  the  money.  He  lodged 
at  first  at  ]\Ir.  J\/.artin  Lippiard's,  a  famous  apothecary ;  but  after 
a  few  daj's  he  3ntered  himself  at  Wadham  College,  where  he 
got  rooms  which  were  of  great  use  to  him  afterwards,  when  the 
Court  came  to  Oxford. 

No  place  coidd  have  been  found  which  offered  more  to  '  ^ 
interest  and  delight  a  man  of  Inglesant's  temperament  than 
Oxford  did  at  this  time.  '  It  was  still  at  the  height  of  that 
prosperity  which  it  had  enjoyed  under  the  King  and  Laud  for 
so  many  years,  but  which  was  soon  to  be  so  sadly  overcast.  • 
The  colleges  were  full  of  men  versed  and  intelligent  in  all 
branches  of  learning  and  science,  as  they  were  then  taught 


90  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap.  viii. 

The  halls  and  chapels  were  full  of  pictures  and  of  rich  plate 
soon  to  be  melted  down;  the  gardens  and  groves  were  in 
beautiful  order,  and  the  bowling  greens  well  kept.  The  utmost 
loyalty  to  Chiu^ch  and  State  existed.  Many  old  customs  of  the 
Papists'  times,  soon  to  be  discontinued,  still  survived.  One  of 
the  scholars  sang  the  Gospel  for  the  day  in  Hall  at  the  latter 
end  of  dinner.  The  musical  services  in  the  Chapels  on  Sundays, 
Holy  Days,  and  Holy  Day  Eves,  were  much  admired,  and  the 
subject  of  great  care.  Music  was  studied  deeply  as  a  science, 
antiquity  and  every  foreign  country  being  ransacked  for  good 
music,  and  every  gentleman  pretending  to  some  knowledge  of 
it.  The  High  Church  party,  which  reigned  supreme,  were  on 
excellent  terms  with  the  Papists,  and  indeed  they  were  so  much 
alike  that  they  mixed  together  without  restraint.  No  people 
in  England  were  more  loyal,  orthodox,  and  observant  of  the 
ceremonies  of  the  Church  of  England  than  the  scholars  and 
generality  of  the  inhabitants. 

Every  kind  of  curious  knowledge  was  eagerly  pursued; 
many  of  the  Fellows'  rooms  were  cmious  museums  of  antiquities 
and  relics,  and  scarce  books  and  manuscripts.  Alchemy  and 
astrology  were  openly  practised,  and  more  than  one  Fellow  had 
the  reputation  of  being  able  to  raise  Spirits.  The  niceties  of 
algebra  and  the  depths  of  metaphysics  were  inquired  into  and 
conversed  upon  with  eagerness,  and  strange  inquiries  upon  re- 
ligion welcomed.  Dr.  Cressy,  of  Merton,  was  the  first  who 
read  Socinus's  books  in  England,  and  is  said  to  have  converted 
Lord  Falkland,  who  saw  them  in  his  rooms.  A  violent  con- 
troversy was  going  on  among  the  physicians,  and  new  schools 
had  risen  up  who  practised  in  chemical  remedies  instead  of  the 
old-fashioned  vegetable  medicines. 

The  mejnbers  of  the  university  had  put  themselves  into 
array  and  a  postiure  of  defence,  for  as  yet  there  was  no  garrison 
at  Oxford,  and  divers  parties  of  soldiers  were  passing  through 
the  country,  sent  by  the  ParUament  to  secure  Banbiuy  and 
AVarwick.  The  deputy  Vice-Chancellor  called  before  him  in 
the  public  schools  every  one  who  had  arms,  and  the  recruits 
were  trained  in  the  quadrangles  of  the  colleges  and  other  places. 
Matters  being  in  this  state,  late  in  October,  in  the  middle  of 
the  week,  news  reached  Oxford  that  the  King  had'  left  Shrews- 
bury with  his  army,  and  was  marching  through  AVarwickshire 
on  his  way  to  London.     The  Parliamentary  army  was  following 


CHAP.  VIII.]  A  ROMANCE.  91 

from  Worcester,  and,  as  was  thought,  the  two  armies  would 
soon  engage.  Numbers  of  volunteers  immediately  started  to 
meet  the  Kuig's  army;  many  of  the  undergraduates  steahng 
out  of  Oxford  secretly,  and  setting  forth  on  foot.  Inglesant 
joined  himself  to  a  company  of  gentlemen  who  had  horses,  and 
who,  with  their  servants,  made  quite  a  troop. 

Some  way  out  of  Oxford  he  overtook  a  young  undergraduate, 
the  elder  brother  of  Anthony  Wood,  afterwards  the  famous 
antiquary  (who  had  stolen  out  of  Oxford  as  above),  and  made 
one  of  his  servants  take  him  up  behind  him.  They  went  by 
Woodstock  and  Chipping  Norton,  and  slept  the  Friday  night  at 
Shipston-upon-Stour,  and  early  tlie  next  morning  obtained  news 
of  the  royal  army,  which  arrived  under  the  Wormleighton  Hills 
in  the  evening  of  Saturday.  The  King  lodged  that  night  at 
Sir  William  Chauncy's,  at  RatoU  Bridge,  some  distance  from 
the  army,  where  Inglesant  went  late  in  the  evening.  These 
quiet  woodland  places,  some  of  the  most  secluded  in  England, 
both  then  and  now — so  much  so,  that  it  was  said  in  those  days 
that  wolves  even  were  found  there — were  disturbed  by  unwonted 
bustle  these  dark  October  nights,  parties  marching  and  counter- 
marching, recruits  and  provisions  arriving.  It  was  not  known 
where  Lord  Essex's  army  was,  but  after  it  was  dark  it  was  dis- 
covered by  the  Prince  of  Wales's  regiment,  which  had  been 
quartered  in  two  or  three  villages  imder  Wormleighton  Hills. 
The  whole  regiment  was  drawn  out  into  the  fields,  and  remained 
there  all  night,  provisions  being  brought  to  them  from  the 
villages,  and  news  was  sent  to  the  King  and  Prince  Rupert. 

At  Sir  William  Chauncy's  Inglesant  found  the  Jesuit  and 
some  other  Catholic  gentlemen  whom  he  knew,  for  the  number 
of  Papists  in  the  royal  army  was  very  great.  Father  Hall  was 
dissatisfied  at  seeing  Inglesant,  and  tried  hard  to  persuade  him 
to  keep  out  of  the  battle,  saying  he  had  different  and  more 
useful  work  for  him  to  do ;  but  Inglesant  would  not  consent, 
though  he  agreed  not  to  expose  himself  unnecessarily.  The 
Jesuit  told  him  that  his  brother  was  with  the  Prince's  regiment, 
but  counselled  him  not  to  join  him,  but  stay  in  the  King's 
bodyguard,  which  his  place  at  Court  might  well  account  for  his 
doing.  He  enlarged  so  much  upon  the  coming  danger,  that 
Inglesant,  who  had  never  seen  a  battle,  became  quite  timid,  and 
was  glad  when  the  Jesuit  was  sent  for  to  the  King.  Inglesant 
slept  in  a  fexm-hovfie,  not  far  from  Sir  William's,  with  several 


92  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap.  Viil. 

other  gentlemen, — for  those  were  fortunate  who  hud  half  a  hed, 
— and  on  the  morning  rode  with  the  King's  pensioners  to  the 
top  of  Edgehill.  The  church -bells  were  ringing  for  morning 
service  as  they  rode  along.  The  King  was  that  day  in  a  black 
velvet  coat  lined  with  ermine,  and  a  steel  cap  covered  with 
velvet.  He  rode  to  every  brigade  of  horse  and  to  all  the  tertias 
of  foot,  and  spoke  to  them  with  great  coiu-age  and  cheerfulness, 
to  which  the  army  responded  with  loud  huzzahs.  An  intense 
feeling  of  excitement  prevailed  as  this  battle — the  first  fought 
in  England  for  more  than  a  ceutiury — was  joined.  Numbers  of 
country  people  crowded  the  heights,  and  the  army  was  full  of 
volunteers  who  had  only  just  joined,  and  had  no  idea  of  war. 
The  King  was  persuaded  with  difficulty  to  remain  on  a  rising- 
ground  at  some  little  distance,  with  his  guard  of  pensioners  on 
horseback ;  but  Inglesant  did  not  remain  w^ith  him,  but  joined 
his  brother  in  the  Prince's  regiment,  under  the  Palsgrave,  and 
rode  in  the  charge  against  the  enemy's  horse,  whom  the  Prince 
completely  routed  and  chafed  off  the  field.  Inglesant,  however, 
did  not  share  in  the  glory  of  this  victory,  for  his  horse  was 
killed  under  him  at  the  first  shock  of  the  encounter,  and  he 
■went  down  with  him,  and  received  more  than  one  kick  from  the 
horses'  hoofs  as  they  passed  over  him,  rendering  him  for  some 
time  senseless.  On  recovering  himself  he  managed  to  get  on 
his  feet,  and  crossed  the  field  to  the  royal  foot,  but  unfortu- 
nately joined  the  foot  guards  at  the  moment  they  were  attacked 
and  routed  by  the  Parliamentary  horse  and  foot.  The  Earl  of 
Lindsay  and  his  son  were  taken  prisoners,  and  the  royal  Standard 
was  taken.  At  this  moment  the  King  was  in  great  danger, 
being  with  fewer  than  a  hundred  horse  within  half  a  musket 
shot  of  the  enemy.  The  two  regiments  of  his  reserve,  however, 
came  up,  and  Charles  was  desirous  of  charging  the  enemy  him- 
self. Inglesant  remained  with  the  broken  regiment  of  the 
guard  who  retreated  up  the  road  over  the  hill,  along  which  the 
enemy's  horse  advanced,  but,  the  early  October  evening  setting 
in,  the  enemy  desisted  and  fell  back  upon  their  reserves.  It 
was  a  hard  frost  that  night,  and  very  cold.  The  King's  army 
marched  up  the  hills  which  they  had  come  down  so  gallantly  in 
the  morning.  Inglesant  remained  with  the  broken  foot  guards 
and  the  rest  of  the  foot,  which  were  confusedly  mixed  together, 
all  night.  The  men  made  fires  all  along  the  hill  top  to  warm 
themselves    and  gathered  round  them  in  strange  and  motley 


CHAP,  vni.]  A  ROMANCE.  93 

groups.  ]\Iany  of  the  foot  were  very  bacUy  armed,  the  Welsh 
men,  especially,  having  only  pitchforks,  and  many  only  clubs ; 
but  Prince  Rupert  the  next  day  made  a  descent  upon  Keinton, 
and  carried  off  several  waggon-loads  of  arms,  which  were  very 
useful.  The  officers  and  men  were  mixed  up  together  round 
the  fires  without  distinction.  As  Inglesant  was  standing  by 
one  of  them  stiff  and  stunned  with  the  blows  he  had  received, 
and  weak  from  a  sabre  cut  he  had  received  on  the  arm,  he  heard 
some  one  who  had  come  up  to  the  fire  inquiring  for  him  hy 
name.  It  was  the  Jesuit,  who  had  given  him  up  for  dead,  as 
he  had  met  his  brother  who  had  retiurned  with  Prince  Rupert 
when  he  rejoined  the  King,  and  had  learnt  from  him  that  Ingle- 
sant had  fallen  in  the  first  charge.  He  told  him  that  Eustace 
had  gone  down  into  the  plain  to  endeavour  to  find  him,  which 
surprised  and  touched  Inglesant  very  much,  as  he  suspected  his 
brother  of  caring  very  little  for  him.  Father  St.  Clare  stayed 
with  Inglesant  at  the  fire  all  night,  for  the  latter  was  too  stiff  to 
move,  and  made  himself  quite  at  liome  with  the  soldiers,  as  he 
could  with  people  of  every  sort,  teUing  them  stories  and  encour- 
aging them  with  hopes  of  high  pay  and  rewards  when  the  King 
had  once  marched  to  London  and  turned  out  the  Parhament. 
Inglesant  dozed  off  to  sleep  and  woke  up  again  several  times 
diuing  this  strange  night,  with  a  confused  consciousness  of  the 
flaring  fii'e  lighting  up  the  wild  figm-es,  and  the  Jesuit  still  talk- 
ing and  still  unwearied  all  through  the  night. 

One  of  the  first  men  he  saw  in  the  morning  was  Edward 
.Wood,  whom  he  had  helped  on  his  way  from  Oxford.  This 
yoimg  man  had  been  much  more  fortunate  than  Inglesant,  for 
he  had  come  on  foot  without  arms,  and  he  had  succeeded  in 
getting  a  good  horse  and  accoutrements. 

"  You  are  much  more  lucky  than  I  am,"  said  Inglesant ;  "I 
have  lost  my  horses  and  servants  and  all  my  arms,  and  am 
beaten  and  woimded,  as  you  see,  till  I  can  scarcely  stand,  while 
you  seem  to  have  made  your  fortune.'* 

"  I  shall  certainly  get  a  commission,"  said  the  young  man, 
who  was  only  eighteen,  and  certainly  was  very  much  pleased 
with  himself;  "but  never  mind,  Mr.  Inglesant,"  he  continued, 
patronizingly,  "it  is  yom*  first  battle,  as  it  is  mine,  and  you 
have  no  doubt  learnt  much  from  it  that  will  be  useful  to  you." 

It  had  been  one  of  the  principal  parts  of  Inglesant's  training 
to  avoid  assumption  himself,  and  to  be  amused  with  it  in  others, 


94  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap.  viii. 

SO  he  took  his  patronage  meekly,  and  wished  him  success  on  hia 
return  to  Oxford,  where  he  really  was  made  an  officer  in  the 
King's  service  soon  after. 

Soon  after  he  was  gone  Inglesant  found  his  brother,  and 
with  him  his  own  servants,  with  an  additional  horse  they  had 
managed  to  secm-e,  with  which  he  replaced  the  one  he  had  lost ; 
and  the  next  morning  he  rode  with  the  Palsgrave  into  Keinton, 
where  they  surprised  the  rear  of  the  Parliamentary  army,  and 
took  much  spoil  of  the  arms  and  ammunition,  and  many  wounded 
officers  and  other  prisoners  ;  but  his  wound  being  very  painful, 
and  being  sick  and  weary  of  the  sight  of  fighting,  and  especially 
of  plundering,  he  left  the  Prince  in  Keinton  and  retm-ned  to 
Oxford,  where  he  was  very  glad  to  get  back  to  his  pleasant 
rooms  in  Wadham.  After  the  King  had  wasted  his  time  in 
taking  Banbury  and  Broughton  Castle,  he  marched  to  Oxford 
"Vith  his  army,  wliere  he  was  received  with  demonstrations  of 
joy,  and  stayed  some  days. 

After  the  King  had  rested  a  short  time  at  Oxford,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  march  to  London ;  but  Inglesant  did  not  accompany 
him.  The  blows  he  had  received  about  the  head,  together  with 
his  wound  and  the  excitement  he  had  gone  through,  brought  on 
a  fever  which  kept  him  in  his  rooms  for  some  time.  The  Jesuit 
stayed  with  him  as  long  as  he  could,  but  many  other  of  Ingle- 
sant's  friends  at  Oxford  showed  him  great  kindness.  When  he 
recovered,  he  found  himself,  to  his  great  surprise,  something  of 
a  hero.  Though,  as  we  have  seen,  few  men  could  have  done 
less  at  Edgehill  than  Inglesant  did,  or  have  had  less  influence 
on  the  event  of  the  day,  yet,  as  he  had  been  in  the  charge  of 
the  Prince's  horse,  and  also  in  the  rout  of  the  foot  guards,  and 
had  been  wounded  in  both,  and  above  all  was,  especially  with 
the  ladies,  something  of  a  favourite,  of  whom  no  one  objected 
to  say  a  good  word,  he  gained  a  decided  reputation  as  a  soldier. 
It  was  indeed  reported  and  believed  at  Little  Gidding  that  he 
had  performed  prodigies  of  valour,  had  saved  the  King's  life 
several  times,  and  retrieved  the  fortunes  of  tlie  day  when  they 
were  desperate.  In  some  respects  this  reputation  was  decidedly 
inconvenient  to  him  ;  he  was  looked  upon  as  a  likely  man  to  be 
in  all  foraging  parties  and  in  expeditions  of  observation  sent 
out  to  trace  the  marchings  and  countermarchings  of  the  enemy. 
Now,  as  he  was  pledged  to  the  Jesuit  not  to  ex]X)se  himself  to 
unnecessary  danger,  these  expeditions  were  veiy  troublesome  to 


CHAP.  IX.]  A  EOMANCE.  95 

him,  besides  taking  him  away  from  the  studies  to  which  he  was 
anxious  to  apply  himself,  and  from  the  company  of  the  leaders 
of  both  the  Churchmen  and  Papists,  to  obtain  the  acquaintance 
and  confidence  of  whom  he  still  applied  himself,  both  from 
inclination  and  in  accordance  with  the  Jesuit's  wish.  It  is 
true,  however,  that  in  these  expeditions  about  the  coimtry  he 
formed  several  friendships  of  this  kind,  which  might  afterwards 
be  useful 


CHAPTER  IX. 

The  King  returned  to  Oxford  in  December,  and  the  Court  was 

established  at  Christ  Church  College.  There  has  perhaps  never 
existed  so  ciu:ious  a  spectacle  as  Oxford  presented  dming  the 
residence  of  the  King  at  the  time  of  the  civil  war.  A  city 
unique  in  itself  became  the  resort  of  a  Court  under  unique  ch- 
cumstances,  and  of  an  innumerable  throng  of  people  of  every 
rank,  disposition,  and  taste,  under  circumstances  the  most  extra- 
ordinary and  romantic.  The  ancient  colleges  and  halls  were 
thronged  with  ladies  and  courtiers ;  noblemen  lodged  in  small 
ttics  over  bakers'  shops  in  the  streets ;  soldiers  were  quartered 
in  the  college  gates  and  in  the  kitchens ;  yet,  with  all  this  con- 
fusion, there  was  maintained  both  something  of  a  com'tly  pomp, 
and  something  of  a  learned  and  religious  society.  The  King 
dined  and  supped  in  public,  and  walked  in  state  in  Christ 
Chiu-ch  meadow  and  Merton  Gardens  and  the  Grove  of  Trinity, 
which  the  wits  called  Daphne.  A  Parliament  sat  from  day  to 
day ;  service  was  sung  daily  in  all  the  Chapels ;  books  both  of 
learning  and  poetry  were  printed  in  the  city ;  and  the  distinc- 
tions which  the  colleges  had  to  offer  were  confen-ed  with  pomp 
on  the  royal  followers,  as  almost  the  only  rewards  the  King  had 
to  bestow.  Men  of  every  opinion  flocked  to  Oxford,  and  many 
foreigners  came  to  visit  the  King.  There  existed  in  the  country 
a  large  and  highly  intelligent  body  of  moderate  men,  who 
hovered  between  the  two  parties,  and  numbers  of  these  were  ■ 
constantly  in  Oxford, — Harrington  the  philosopher  the  King's 
friend,  Hobbes,  Lord  Falkland,  Lord  Paget,  the  Lord  Keeper, 
and  many  others. 

Mixed  up  with  these  grave  and  studious  persons,  gay  courtiers 
and  gayer  ladies  jostled  old  and  severe  divines  and  college  heads, 


96  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [OHAP.  IX. 

and  crusty  tutors  used  the  sarcasms  they  ha  1  been  wont  to  hiu*! 
at  their  pupils  to  reprove  ladies  whose  conduct  appeared  to  them 
at  least  far  from  decorous.  Christmas  interludes  were  enacted 
in  Hall,  and  Shakespeare's  plays  performed  by  the  King's  players, 
assisted  by  amateur  performers ;  and  it  would  have  been  diffi- 
cult to  say  whether  the  play  was  performed  before  the  curtain 
or  behind  it,  or  whether  the  actors  left  their  parts  behind  them 
when  the  performance  was  over,  or  then  in  fact  resumed  them. 
The  groves  and  walks  of  the  colleges,  and  especially  Christ 
Church  meadow  and  the  Grove  at  Trinity,  were  the  resort  of 
this  gay  and  brilliant  throng ;  the  woo(J^  were  vocal  with  song 
and  music,  and  love  and  gallantry  sported  themselves  along  the 
pleasant  river  banks.  The  poets  and  wits  vied  with  each  other 
in  classic  conceits  and  parodies,  wherein  the  events  of  the  day 
and  every  individual  incident  were  portrayed  and  satirized. 
"VVit,  learning,  and  religion  joined  hand  in  hand,  as  in  some 
grotesque  and  brilliant  masque.  The  most  admired  poets  and 
players  and  the  most  profound  mathematicians  became  "  Roman- 
cists  "  and  monks,  and  exhausted  all  their  wit  and  poetry  and 
learning  in  furthering  their  divine  mission,  and  finally,  as  the 
last  scenes  of  this  strange  drama  came  on,  fell  fighting  on  some 
hardly-contested  grassy  slope,  and  were  biu-ied  on  the  spot,  or  in 
the  next  village  chm'chyard,  in  the  dress  in  which  they  played 
Philaster,  or  the  Coiurt  garb  in  which  they  wooed  their  mistress, 
or  the  doctor's  gown  in  which  they  preached  before  the  King, 
or  read  Greek  in  the  schools. 

This  gaiety  was  much  increased  the  next  year,  when  the 
Queen  came  to  Oxford,  and  the  last  happy  days  of  the  ill-fated 
monarch  glided  by.  It  was  really  no  inapt  hyberbole  of  the 
classic  wits  which  compared  this  motley  scene  to  the  marriage 
of  Jupiter  and  Juno  of  old,  when  all  the  Gods  were  invited  to 
the  feast,  and  many  noble  personages  besides,  but  to  which  also 
came  a  motley  company  of  mummers,  maskers,  fantastic  phan- 
toms, whifflers,  thieves,  rufflers,  gulls,  wizards,  and  monsters, 
and  among  the  rest  Crysalus,  a  Persian  Prince,  bravely  attended, 
clad  in  rich  and  gay  attire,  and  of  majestic  presence,  but  other- 
wise an  ass ;  whom  the  Gods  at  first,  seeing  him  enter  in  such 
pomp,  rose  and  saluted,  taking  him  for  one  worthy  of  honour 
and  high  place;  and  whom  Jupiter,  perceiving  what  he  was, 
turned  with  his  retinue  into  butterflies,  who  continued  in  pied 
coats  roving  about  among  the  Gods  and  the  wiser  sort  of  men. 


CHAP.  IX.]  A  ROMANCE.  97 

Something  of  this  kind  he:ge  happened,  when  'wdsdcm  and  folly. 
vice  and  piety,  learning  and  gaiety,  terrible  eaniest  even  to  death 
and  light  frivolity,  jostled  each  other  in  the  stately  precincts  of 
Parnassus  and  Olympus. 

With  every  variety  and  shade  of  this  strange  life  Inglesant 
had  some  acquaintance ;  the  philosophers  knew  him,  the  Papists 
confided  in  him ;  Cave,  the  writer  of  news-letters  for  the  Papists, 
sought  him  for  information ;  the  Church  party,  who  knew  hia 
connection  with  the  Archbishop,  and  the  services  he  had 
rendered  him,  sought  his  company ;  the  ladies  made  use  of  his 
handsome  person  and  talents  for  acting,  as  they  did  also  that 
of  his  brother.  He  had  the  entree  to  the  King  at  all  times,  and 
was  supposed  to  be  a  favourite  with  Charles,  though  in  reality 
the  King's  feelings  toward-s  him  were  of  a  mixed  nature.  Ko 
man  certainly  was  better  known  at  Oxford,  and  no  man  cer- 
tainly knew  more  of  what  was  going  on  in  England  than 
Inglesant  did. 

Among  the  chief  beauties  of  the  Court  the  Lady  Isabella 
Thynne  was  the  most  conspicuous  and  the  most  enterprising : 
the  poet  Waller  sang  her  praise,  music  was  played  before  her 
as  she  walked,  and  she  affected  the  garb  and  manner  of  an  angel. 
She  was  most  beautiful,  com-teous,  and  charitable ;  but  she . 
allowed  her  gaiety  and  love  of  intrigue  to  lead  her  into  very 
equivocal  positions.  She  was  intimately  acquainted  with 
Eustace  Inglesant,  who  was  one  of  her  devoted  servants,  and 
assisted  her  in  many  of  her  gaieties  and  gallant  festivals  and 
sports ;  but  she  was  shy  of  Johnny,  and  told  Eustace  that  his 
brother  was  too  much  of  a  monk  for  her  taste.  She  had  a  bevy 
of  ladies,  who  were  her  intimate  friends,  and  were  generally 
with  her,  some  of  whom  she  did  not  improve  by  her  friendship. 

There  was  in  Oxford  a  gentleman,  a  Mr.  Eichard  Fentham, 
who  was  afterwards  knighted,  a  menibOT  .M^j?'?rin;ce^sjG^^^ 
and  a  person  of  great  trust  with  th.e_King.^,  This  gentleman 
had  been  at  school  with  Eustace  Inglesant  at  that  famous 
schoolmaster's  Mr.  Farnabie,  in  Cripplegate  Parish  in  London, — 
a  school  at  one  time  frequented  by  more  than  three  hundred 
young  noblemen  and  gentlemen,  for  whose  accommodation  he 
had  handsome  houses  and  large  gardens.  One  day  Fentham 
took  Eustace  Inglesant  to  call  on  two  young  ladies,  the  daugh- 
ters of  Sir  John  Harris,  who  had  lately  come  to  Oxford  to  join 
their  father,  who  had  suffered  heavy  losses  in  the  royal  cause, 

Ji 


98  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [cHAP.  IX. 

and  had  been  made  a  baronet.  They  found  these  two  young 
ladies,  to  the  eldest  of  whom  Fentham  was  engaged,  in  a  baker's 
house  in  an  obscure  street,  ill-fiu-nished  and  mean-looking.  They 
were  both,  especially  the  eldest,  extremely  beautiful,  and  had 
been  brought  up  in  a  way  equal  to  any  gentleman's  da.ughtcia 
in  England,  so  that  the  gentlemen  coidd  not  help  condoling  with 
them  on  this  lamentable  change  of  fortune,  to  which  they  were 
reduced  by  their  father's  devotion  to  the  royal  cause. 

The  eldest  young  lady,  Ann,  a  spnited  lively  girl,  confessed 
it  was  *'  a  great  change  from  a  large  well-furnished  house  to  a 
very  bad  bed  in  a  garret,  and  from  a  plentifid  table  to  one  dish 
of  meat — and  that  not  the  best  ordered, — with  no  money,  for 
they  were  as  poor  as  Job,  and  had  no  clothes,"  she  said,  "but 
what  a  man  or  two  had  brought  in. the  cloak  bags."  Eustace 
Inglesant  pursued  the  acquaintance  thus  begun ;  and  both  he 
and  his  brother  were  at  Wolvercot  Church  some  time  afterwards, 
when  Richard  Fentham  and  Mistress  Ann  were  married  in  the 
presence  of  Sir  Edward  Hyde,  aftei-wards  the  Lord  Chancellor, 
and  Geoffry  Palmer,  the  King's  attorney.  Lady  Fentham  was 
much  admired  and  sought  after,  and  became  one  of  Lady  Isa- 
bella's intimate  friends.  She  was  a  lively,  active  girl,  and  fond 
of  all  kinds  of  stirring  exercise  and  excitement,  and  was  pecu- 
liarly liable  to  be  led  into  scrapes  in  such  society.  Besides 
Lady  Isabella,  she  was  also  exposed  to  other  temptations  from 
political  ladies,  who  endeavoured  to  persuade  her  that  a  woman 
of  her  talent  and  energy  shoidd  take  some  active  part  in  public 
affairs,  and  get  her  husband  to  trust  to  her  the  secrets  of  the 
Prince's  Council.  They  succeeded  so  far  as  to  cause  her  to  press 
her  husband  on  this  matter,  and  to  cause  some  impleasant  feel- 
ing on  her  part,  which,  but  for  his  kind  and  forgiving  conduct, 
might  have  led  to  a  serious  breach.  This  danger  passed  over, 
but  those  springing  from  the  acquaintance  with  Lady  Isabella 
were  much  more  serious.  Sir  Richard  was  much  away  at  Bristol 
with  the  Prince,  and  during  his  absence  Lady  Isabella  promoted 

an  intimacy  between  Lord  H ,   afterwards  the  Duke  of 

P ,  and  her  young  friend.      In  this  she  was  assisted  by 

Eustace  Inglesant,  who  appeared  to  be  actuated  by  some  very 
strange  personal  motive,  which  Johnny,  who  saw  a  great  deal  of 
what  was  going  on,  could  not  penetrate. 

Matters  were  in  this  state  when  one  day  Shakespeare's  play 
of  "  The  Comedy  of  Errors,"  or  an  adaptation  of  it,  was  given 


CHA.P.  IX.]  A  ROMANCE.  9S 

by  the  geutlemen  of  the  Court,  assisted  hy  the  King's  players, 
in  the  Hall  at  Christ  Church,  The  parts  of  the  brothers  Anti- 
pholus  were  taken  by  the  two  Inglesants,  who  were  still  said  to 
be  so  exactly  alike  that  mistakes  were  continually  being  made 
between  them.  The  play  was  over  early,  and  the  brilliant  com- 
pany streamed  out  into  the  long  walk  at  Christ  Church,  which 
was  already  occupied  by  a  motley  throng.  The  players  mingled 
with  the  crowd,  and  solicited  compliments  on  their  several  per- 
formances. The  long  avenue  presented  a  singular  and  lively 
scene — ladies,  courtiers,  soldiers  in  buff  coats,  clergymen  in  their 
gowns  and  bands,  doctors  of  law  and  medicine  in  their  hoods, 
heads  of  houses,  beggars,  mountebanks,  jugglers  and  musicians, 
popish  priests,  college  servants,  country  gentlemen,  ParHament 
men,  and  townspeople,  all  confusedly  intermixed ;  with  the  after- 
noon sun  shining  across  the  broad  meadow,  under  the  rustling 
leaves,  and  lighting  up  the  windows  of  the  Colleges,  and  the 
windings  of  the  placid  river  beyond. 

John  Inglesant,  in  the  modern  Court  dress  in  which,  accord- 
ing to  the  fashion  of  the  day,  he  had  played  Antipholus  of 
Ephesus,  was  speaking  to  Lord  Falkland,  who  had  not  been  at 
the  jDlay,  but  who,  grave  and  melancholy,  with  his  dress  neglected 
and  in  disorder,  was  speaking  of  the  death  of  Hampden,  which 
had  just  occurred,  when  a  page  spoke  to  Inglesant,  telling  him 
that  Lady  Isabella  desired  his  presence  instantly.  Rather  sur- 
prised, Inglesant  followed  him  to  where  the  lady  was  walking, 
a  little  apart  from  the  crowd,  in  a  path  across  the  meadows 
leading  from  the  main  walk.  She  smiled  as  Inglesant  came 
up. 

"I  see,  Mr.  Esquire  Inglesant,"  she  said,  "that  the  play  is 
not  over.  It  was  your  brother  I  sent  for,  whom  this  stupid  boy 
seemingly  has  sought  in  Ephesus  and  not  in  England." 

"I  am  happy  for  once  to  have  supplanted  my  brother, 
madam,"  said  Johnny,  adapting  from  his  part.  "  I  have  run 
hither  to  your  grace,  whom  only  to  see  now  gives  me  ample 
satisfaction  for  these  deep  shames  and  great  indignities." 

"I  am  afraid  of  you,  Mr.  Inglesant,"  said  the  lady;  "you 
have  so  high  a  reputation  with  grave  and  religious  people,  and 
yet  you  are  a  better  cavalier  than  your  brother,  when  you  con- 
descend that  way.  That  is  how  you  please  the  Nuns  of  Gid- 
ding  so  well." 

"  Spare  the  poor  Nuns  of  Gidding  your  raillery,  madam," 


100  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap.  IX. 

said  Iiiglesaiit ;  "  siirely  Venus  Aphrodite  is  not  jealous  of  tlie 
gentle  dove." 

"I  will  not  talk  with  you,  Mr.  Inglesant,"  said  the  lady 
pettishly ;  "  find  your  brother,  I  beseech  you ;  his  wit  is  duller 
than  yours,  but  it  is  more  to  my  taste," 

Inglesant  went  to  seek  his  brother ;  but  before  he  found  him 
his  attention  was  arrested  from  behind,  and  turning  round  he 

found  Lis  scarf  held  by  Lord  H ,  who  said  at  once,  "  Is  the 

day  fixed,  and  the  place?  have  you  seen  the  lady?" 

"  My  lord,"  said  Inglesant,  "  the  play  really  is  over,  though 
no  one  will  believe  it.  'I  think  you  all  have  drunk  of  Circe's 
Cup.'  I  am  afraid  as  many  mishaps  wait  me  here  as  at 
Ephesus." 

Lord  H saw  his  mistake.     "  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he 

said ;  "  I  took  you  for  your  brother,  Avho  has  some  business  of 
mine  in  hand.     I  wish  you  good  day." 

*'  I  must  get  to  the  bottom  of  the  mischief  that  is  brewing," 
said  Inglesant ;  "there  is  some  mystery  which  I  cannot  fathom. 
The  lady  no  doubt  is  pretty  Lady  Fentham,  but  Eustace  surely 
can  never  mean  to  betray  his  friend  in  so  foid  a  way  as  this." 

That  evening  he  sought  his  brother,  and  telling  him  all  he 
had  noticed,  and  what  he  had  overheard,  he  begged  him  to  tell 
him  the  plain  facts  of  wiiat  was  going  on,  lest  he  might  add  to 
the  confusion  in  his  ignorance.  Eustace  hesitated  a  little,  but 
at  last  he  told  him  all. 

"  There  is  no  real  harm  intended,  except  by  Lord  H ," 

he  said ;  "  Lady  Isabella  simply  wants  to  make  mischief  and 
confusion  all  around  her.     She  has  persuaded  Ann  Fentham  to 

encourage  Lord  H a  little,  to  lead  him  into  a  snare  in 

which  he  is  to  be  exposed  to  ridicule.  There  is  a  lady  in  Oxford, 
whom  you  no  doubt  know,  Lady  Cardiff,  whom,  if  you  know 
her,  you  know  to  be  one  of  the  most  fantastic  women  now  living, 

to  bring  whom  into  connection  with  Lord  H Mrs.  Fentham 

has  conceived  would  be  great  sport ;  now,  to  tell  you  a  secret, 
this  lady,  who  entered  into  this  affair  merely  for  excitement  and 
sport,  is  gradually  becoming  attached  to  me.  I  intend  to  marry 
her  with  Lady  Isabella's  help.  She  has  an  immense  fortune  and 
large  parks  and  houses,  and  has  connections  on  both  sides  in  this 
war,  so  that  her  property  is  safe  whatever  befalls.  This  is  a 
profound  secret  between  me  and  the  Lady  Isabella,  who  is  under 
obligations  to  me.     Mrs.  Fentham  knows  nothing  of  it,  and  la 


CHAP.  IX.]  A  ROMANCE.  "101 

occupied  solely  with  bringing  Lord  H and  Lady  Cardiff 

together.     The  ladies  are  going  down  to  Newnham  to-morrow. 

I  meet  them  there,  and  Lord  H is  to  be  allowed  to  come. 

I  intend  to  press  my  suit  to  Lady  Cardiff,  and  certainly  by  this 
I  shall  spoil  Lady  Fentham's  plot ;  but  this  is  all  the  harm  I 
intend.  What  will  happen  besides  I  really  cannot  say,  but 
nothing  beyond  a  little  honest  gallantry  doubtless." 

"  But  is  not  such  sport  very  dangerous  V  said  John.  "  Sup- 
pose this  intimacy  came  to  Richard  Fentham's  ears,  what  would 
he  say  to  it  1  You  told  me  there  had  ah'eady  been  some  mis- 
chief made  by  some  of  the  women  between  them." 

"  If  he  hears  of  it,"  said  Eustace  carelessly,  "  it  can  be  ex- 
plained to  him  easily  enough  ;  he  is  no  fool,  and  is  not  the  man 
to  misunderstand  an  innocent  joke." 

Inglesant  was  not  satisfied,  but  he  had  nothing  more  to  say, 
and  changed  the  subject  by  inquii'ing  about  Lady  Cardifi',  of 
whom  he  knew  little. 

This  lady  was  a  peeress  in  her  own  right,  havmg  inherited 
the  title  and  estates  from  her  father.  She  had  been  carefully 
educated,  and  was  learned  in  many  languages.  She  had  acted 
all  her  life  from  principles  laid  down  by  herself,  and  different 
from  those  which  governed  the  actions  of  other  people.  She 
had  bad  liealth,  suflfering  excruciating  pain  at  frequent  intervals 
from  headache,  which  it  is  supposed  unsettled  her  reason.  At 
her  principal  seat,  Oulton,  in  Dorsetshire,  she  collected  around 
her  celebrities  and  uncommon  persons,  "Excentrics"  as  they 
were  called,  principally  great  physicians  and  quacks,  and  re- 
ligious persons  and  mystic  theologians.  Vai^  Helmont,  the 
great  alchemist,  spent  much  time  there,  attemptmg  to  cure  her 
disorder  or  allay  her  suflPerings,  and  Dr.  Henry  More  of  Cam- 
bridge condescended  to  reside  some  time  at  Oulton.  It  was  a 
great  freestone  house,  surrounded  by  gardens,  and  by  a  park  or 
rather  chase  of  great  extent,  enclosing  large  pieces  of  water,  and 
surrounded  by  wooded  and  uncultivated  country  for  many  miles. 
At  the  time  at  which  we  are  arrived,  however,  her  health  was 
better  than  il  afterwards  became,  and  she  was  chiefly  ambitious 
of  occupying  an  important  position  in  politics,  and  of  seeing 
every  species  of  life.  She  was  connected  with  some  of  the  prin- 
cipal persons  on  both  sides  in  the  civil  contention,  and  parsed 
much  time  both  in  London  and  in  Oxford.  In  both  these 
places,  but  especially  in  the  royal  quarters,  where  greater  license 


102         *  JOHN  INGLESANT  J  [chap.  IX. 

was  possible,  she  endeavoured  to  be  included  in  anything  of  an 
exciting  and  entertaining  character  that  was  going  on.  Whatever 
it  was,  it  afforded  her  an  insight  into  human  nature  and  the 
manners  of  the  world.  Such  a  character  does  not  seem  a,  likely 
one  to  be  willing  to  submit  to  the  restraints  of  the  married  life, 
and  indeed  Lady  Cardiff  had  hitherto  rejected  the  most  tennpting 
offere,  and,  as  she  had  attained  the  mature  age  of  thirty-two, 
most  people  imagined  that  she  would  not  at  that  time  of  life 
exchange  her  condition.  It  appeared,  however,  that  her  fate 
had  at  last  met  her  in  the  handsome  person  of  Eustace  Ingle- 
sant,  and  the  secret  which  Eustace  had  told  his  brother  was 
already  beginning  to  be  whispered  in  Oxford,  and  opinions  were 
divided  as  to  whether  the  boldness  of  the  young  man  or  his 
good  fortune  were  the  most  to  be  admired. 

When  Inglesant  left  his  brother  and  walked  under  the  starry 
sky  to  his  lodgings  at  Wadham,  his  mind  was  ill  at  ease.  He 
had  taken  a  great  interest  in  Lady  Fentham  and  her  husband ; 
indeed,  his  feelings  towards  the  former  were  those  of  an  attached 
friend,  attracted  by  her  lively  innocence  and  good  nature.  He 
was,  as  the  reader  will  remember,  still  very  young,  being  only  in 
his  twenty-second  year.  He  was  sincerely  and  vitally  religious, 
though  his  religion  might  appear  to  be  kept  in  subordination  to 
his  taste,  and  he  had  formed  for  himself,  from  various  sources, 
an  ideal  of  purity,  which  in  his  mind  connected  earth  to  heaven, 
and  which,  at  this  period  of  his  life  at  any  rate,  he  may  have 
been  said  faultlessly  to  have  carried  out.  The  circumstances  of 
his  youth  and  early  training,  which  we  have  endeavoured  to 
trace,  acting  upon  a  constitution  in  which  the  mental  power 
dominated,  rendered  self-restraint  natural  to  him,  or  rather 
rendered  self-restraint  needless.  It  was  one  of  the  glories  of 
i  that  age  that  it  produced  such  men  as  he  was,  and  that  not  a 
few ;  men  who  combined  qualities  such  as,  perhaps,  no  after 
!  age  ever  saw  united ;  men  like  George  Herbert,  ISFicholas  Ferrar, 
'  Falkland,  the  unusual  combination  of  the  com-tier  and  the  monk. 
Yet  these  men  were  naturally  in  the  minority,  and  even  while 
moulding  their  age,  were  still  regarded  by  their  age  with  wonder 
and  a  certain  kind  of  awe.  It  is  not  meant  that  John  Ingle- 
sant was  altogether  a  good  specimen  of  this  high  class  of  men, 
for  he  was  more  of  a  courtier  than  he  was  of  a  saint.  He  was 
a  sincere  believer  in  a  holy  life,  and  strongly  desirous  of  pur- 
suing it :  he  endeavour  kI  conscientiously  to  listen  for  the  utter- 


CHAP.  IX.]  A  ROMANCE  103 

ances  of  the  Divine  Voi3e ;  and  provided  that  Voice  pointed  out 
the  path  which  his  tfstes  and  training  had  prepared  him  to 
expect,  he  would  follow  it  even  at  a  sacrifice  to  himself;  but  he 
was  not  capable  of  a  sacrifice  of  his  tastes  or  of  his  training. 
On  the  other  hand,  as  a  courtier  and  man  of  the  world,  he  waa 
profoimdly  tolerant  of  error  and  even  of  vice  (provided  the  latter 
did  not  entail  suffering  on  any  innocent  victim),  looking  upon  it 
as  a  natural  incident  in  human  afiairs.  This  quahty  had  its 
good  side,  in  making  him  equally  tolerant  of  religious  differ- 
ences, so  that,  as  has  been  seen,  it  was  not  difficult  to  him  to 
recognize  the  Divine  prompting  in  a  Puritan  and  an  opponent. 
He  was  acutely  sensitive  to  ridicule,  and  would  as  soon  have 
thought  of  going  to  Court  in  an  improper  dress  as  of  speaking  of 
religion  in  a  mixed  company,  or  of  offering  any  advice  or  reproof 
to  any  one.  In  the  case  which  was  now  distm-bing  his  mind, 
his  chief  fear  was  of  making  himself  ridiculous  by  interfering 
where  no  interference  was  necessary. 

He  passed  a  restless  night,  and  the  next  morning  went  to 
Trinity  Chapel,  then  much  frequented  for  the  high  style  of 
the  music.  He  was  scarcely  here  before  Lady  Isabella  and 
young  Lady  Fentham,  who  lodged  in  that  coUege,  came  in,  as 
was  their  habit,  dressed  to  resemble  angels  in  loose  and  very 
inadequate  attire.  At  another  time  he  might  not  have  thought 
much  of  it,  but,  his  suspicions  being  aroused,  he  could  not  help, 
courtier  as  he  was,  contrasting  the  boldness  of  this  behaviour 
with  the  chaste  and  holy  life  of  the  ladies  at  Little  Gidding ; 
and  it  made  him  still  more  restless  and  uncertain  what  to  do. 
He  avoided  the  ladies  after  Chapel,  and  returned  to  his  own 
rooms  quite  uncertain  how  to  act.  It  came  at  last  into  his 
mind  to  inquire  of  the  Secretary  Falkland  whether  Sir  Eichard 
Fentham  was  expected  shortly  in  Oxford,  as  his  journeys  were 
very  irregular,  and  generally  kept  a  profound  secret.  He  went 
to  Lord  Falkland  and  asked  the  question,  telling  him  that  he 
did  so  from  private  reasons  unconnected  with  the  State.  Falk- 
land declined  at  first  to  answer  him ;  but  on  Inglesant's  taking 
him  a  little  more  into  his  confidence,  he  confided  to  him,  as  a 
great  secret,  tliat  Sir  Richard  was  expected  that  very  night, 
and  further,  that  he  would  pass  through  Newnham  in  the 
afternoon,  whsre  he  would  meet  a  messenger  with  despatches. 
Upon  learning  this  startling  piece  of  news,  Inglesant  hastened 
to  his  brother's  rooms,  but  found  he  was  too  late,  Eustace 


104  JOHN  INGLES  ANT  ;  [cHAP.  ix. 

having  been  gone  more  than  two  hours,  and  as  he  started  con- 
siderably after  tlie  ladies'  coacli,  there  could  be  no  doubt  but 
that  the  party  was  already  at  Newnham.  Inglesant  went  to 
the  stables  where  his  horses  were  kept,  and  having  found  one 
of  his  servants,  he  ordered  his  own  horse  to  be  saddled,  as  he 
was  going  to  ride  alone.  While  it  was  being  prepared  he 
attempted  to  form  some  plan  upon  which  to  act  when  he 
arrived  at  Newnham,  but  his  ingenuity  completely  failed  nim. 
Merely  to  walk  into  a  room  where  some  ladies  and  gentlemen 
were  at  dinner,  to  which  he  was  not  invited,  and  inform  one  of 
the  ladies  that  her  husband  was  in  the  ueighbom'hood,  appeared 
an  action  so  absurd  that  he  discarded  the  intention  at  once. 
When  his  horse  was  brouglit  out  and  he  mounted  and  rode  out 
of  Oxford  towards  the  south,  telling  his  servant  he  should  be 
back  at  night,  he  probably  did  not  know  why  he  w^ent.  He 
rode  cjuickly,  and  arrived  in  about  an  hoiu*.  The  Plough  at 
Newnham  (it  has  long  disappeared)  stood  upon  the  banks  of 
tlie  river,  in  a  picturesque  and  retired  situation,  and  was  much 
frequented  by  parties  of  jDleasm^e  fi-om  Oxford.  The  gardens 
and  bowling-greens  lay  upon  the  river  bank,  ancl  the  paths 
extended  from  them  through  the  fields  both  up  and  down  the 
river.  It  was  apparent  to  Inglesant  that  a  distinguished  party 
v^as  in  the  house,  from  the  servants  loitering  about  the  doors, 
and  coming  in  and  out.     More  than  one  of  these  he  recognized 

as  belonging  to  Lord  H .     The  absm-dity  of  suspecting  any 

mischief  from  so  public  a  rc--]e.::vous  struck  Inglesant  as  so 
great,  that  he  was  on  the  point  of  passing  the  house.  He 
however  alighted  and  inquired  of  one  of  the  men  whether  any 
of  his  brother's  servants  were  about.  The  man,  who  knew  him, 
replied  that  Mr.  Eustace  Inglesant  had  dined  there  with  his 
lordship  and  the  ladies,  but  was  then,  he  believed,  either  in  the 
garden  or  the  fields  with  Lady  Cardiff;  he  had  brought  no 
servants  with  him.  Having  got  thus  into  conversation  with 
the  man,  Inglesant  ventured  to  inquire,  with  as  careless  u 
manner  as  he  could  assume,  if  Lady  Isabella  were  there. 

Lady  Isabella,  the  man  said,  had  dined  there,  but  after 
dinner  had  gone  on  a  little  farther  in  her  coich,  and  attended 
by  her  servants,  he  believed  to  make  some  caU  in  the 
neighbourhood. 

Then  Inglesant  knew  that  he  had  done  right  to  come. 

"  I  have  a  message  to  Lady  Ann  Fentham,"  he  said  to  the 


CHAP.  IX.]  A  ROMANCE.  105 

man,  "but  not  "being  of  the  party.  I  would  rather  have  sent 
it  through  my  brother.  As  I  suppose  it  is  useless  to  attempt 
to  find  him,  I  shall  be  glad  if  you  will  tell  me  in  which  room 
the  lady  is,  for  I  suppose  his  lordship  is  with  her.'' 

"  His  lordship  left  orders  that  he  was  not  to  be  distiubed,'* 
said  the  man  insolently ;  "  you  had  better  try  and  find  your 
brother." 

"Nevertheless,  I  must  give  her  my  message,"  said  Ingle- 
sant  quietly  :  "therefore,  pray  show  me  upstairs." 

"  I  don't  know  the  room,"  said  the  man  still  more  rudely, 
"and  you  cannot  go  upstairs;  his  lordship  has  engaged  the 
house." 

During  the  conversation  the  other  men  had  gathered  round, 
and  it  seemed  to  Inglesant  that  his  lordship  must  have  brought 
all  his  servants  with  him,  for  the  house  appeared  full  of  them. 
None  of  the  ordinary  servants  of  the  place  were  to  be  seen. 

Inglesant  had  no  arms  but  his  riding  sword,  and  even  if  he 
had  had,  the  use  of  them  would  have  been  absm-d. 

"You  know  who  I  am,"  he  said,  looking  the  man  steadily 
in  the  face,  "  one  of  the  King's  gentlemen  whom  they  call  the 
Queen's  favourite  page.  I  bring  a  message  to  Lady  Fentham 
from  her  husband,  the  Secretary  to  tlie  Prince's  Council :  do 
you  think  your  lord  will  wish  you  to  stop  me  ^" 

As  he  spoke  he  made  a  step  forward  as  though  to  enter,  and 
the  man,  evidently  in  doubt,  stepped  slightly  on  one  side,  making 
it  possible  to  enter  the  house.  The  rest  took  tliis  movement 
to  imply  surrender,  and  one  of  the  youngest,  probably  to  gain 
favour,  said,  "  The  lady  is  in  the  room  opposite  the  stairs,  sir." 
Inglesant  walked  up  the  low  oak  staircase  to  the  door,  the  men 
crowding  together  in  silence  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs. 

Inglesant  tried  the  latch  of  the  door,  though  he  did  not 
intend  to  go  in  without  knocking. 

The  door  was  fastened,  and  he  knocked. 
For  a  moment  there  was  silence,  and  then  a  voice  said, 
angrily,  "Who  is  there?" 

"  A  message  from  Sir  Richard  Fentham,"  said  Inglesant. 
There  was  another  and  a  longer  pause,  and  then  the  same 
voice  said, — 

"  Is  Sir  Richard  without  r' 

"No,"  replied  Inglesant;  "but  he  may  be  here  any 
moment ;  he  is  on  the  road." 


106  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [chap.  IX. 

The  door  was  immediately  opened  by  his  lordship,  aud 
Inglesant  walked  in. 

The  moment  he  did,  Lady  Fentham,  who  was  in  the  further 
part  of  the  room,  started  up  from  the  seat  in  which  she  was 
lying,  and  throwing  herself  on  Johnny's  shoulder  said, — 

"  Help  me,  Mr.  Inglesant,  I  have  been  cruelly  deceived." 

Inglesant  took  no  notice  of  her,  but  turning  to  Lord  H 

he  said  with  marked  politeness, — 

"  I  have  to  beg  your  lordship's  pardon  for  intruding  upon 
your  company,  but  I  am  charged  to  let  Lady  Fentham  know 
that  Sir  Richard  is  expected  in  Oxford  to-night,  and  may  pass 
this  house  at  any  time,  probably  in  a  few  minutes.  I  thought 
Lady  Fentham  would  wish  to  know  this  so  much  that  I  ven- 
tured to  knock,  though  your  servants  told  me  you  wished  to  be 
private." 

His  words  were  so  chosen  and  his  manner  so  faultless  and 

devoid  of  suspicion,  that  Lord  H could  find  nothing  in 

either  to  quarrel  with,  though  he  was  plainly  in  a  violent 
passion,  and  with  difficulty  controlled  himself.  It  had  also  the 
effect  of  calming  Lady  Fentham,  who  remained  silent ;  indeed, 
she  appeared  too  agitated  to  speak.  It  was  an  awkward  pause, 
but  less  so  to  Inglesant  than  to  the  other  two. 

"  I  wished,"  he  continued,  still  speaking  to  Lord  H , 

**  to  have  sent  my  message  by  my  brother,  but  I  find  he  is 
walking  in  the  fields,  and  Lady  Isabella  appears  to  have  gone 
in  her  carriage  to  make  a  call  in  the  neighbourhood.  I  presume 
she  will  call  for  you,  Lady  Fentham,  on  her  way  back." 

Lady  Fentham  made  a  movement  of  anger,  and  Lord  H 

roused  himself  at  last  to  say, — 

"I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Inglesant,  for  the  great 
trouble  you  have  taken.  I  assure  you  I  shall  not  forget  it. 
Lady  Fentham,  as  Sir  Richard  will  so  soon  be  here" — he 
stopped  suddenly  as  an  idea  struck  him,  and  looking  full  at 
Inglesant,  said  slowly  and  with  marked  emphasis,  "  Supposing 
Mr.  Inglesant  to " — to  have  spoken  the  truth  he  would  have 
said,  but  Johnny's  perfectly  courteous  attitude  of  calm  polite- 
ness, the  utter  absence  of  any  tangible  ground  of  offence,  and 
his  own  instincts  as  a  gentleman,  checked  him,  and  he  con- 
tinued,— "  has  not  been  misinformed,  you  will  not  need  my 
protection  any  further.  I  will  leave  you  with  Mr.  Inglesant ; 
probably  Lady  Cardiff  will  be  back  before  long." 


CHAP.  IX.]  A  ROSIANCE.  107 

He  took  his  leave  with  equal  courtesy  both  to  the  lady  aud 
Inglesant,  and  went  down  to  his  men. 

Ann  Fentham  sank  into  her  chair,  and  began  to  sob  bitterly, 
saying,— 

"  What  shall  I  say  to  my  husband,  Mr.  Inglesant  1  He  will 
be  here  directly,  aud  will  find  me  alone.  What  would  have 
happened  to  me  if  you  had  not  come  V 

"  If  I  may  offer  any  advice,  madam,  I  should  say.  Tell  your 
liusband  everything  exactly  as  it  happened.  Nothing  has 
happened  of  which  you  have  need  to  be  ashamed.  Sir  Richard 
will  doubtless  see  that  you  have  been  shamefully  deceived  by 
your  friends,  as  far  as  I  understand  the  matter.  You  can  trust 
to  his  sympathy  and  kindness." 

She  did  not  reply,  and  Inglesant,  who  found  his  situation 
far  "more  awkward  than  before,  said,  "  Shall  I  seek  for  Lady 
Cardiff,  madam,  and  bring  her  to  you  ?" 

"  No,  don't  leave  me,  Mr.  Inglesant,"  she  said,  springing  up 
and  coming  to  him  ;  "I  shall  bless  your  name  for  ever  for  what 
you  have  done  for  me  this  day." 

Inglesant  stayed  with  the  lady  until  it  was  plain  Lord 

H had  left  the  house  with  his  servants,  and  he  then  left 

her  and  went  into  the  garden  to  endeavour  to  find  his  brother 
and  Lady  Cardiff;  but  in  this  he  was  not  successful,  and 
returned. to  the  house,  where  he  ordered  some  dinner — for  he 
had  eaten  nothing  since  the  morning — and  seated  himself  at 
the  window  to  wait  for  Sir  Eiehard.  He  had  sat  there  about 
an  hour  when  the  latter  arrived,  and  drew  his  rein  before  the 
house  before  dismounting.  Inglesant  greeted  him  and  went  out 
to  him  in  the  porch.     Fentham  returned  his  greeting  warmly. 

"  Your  wife  is  upstairs.  Sir  Richard,"  Inglesant  said ;  "  she 
came  down  with  Lady  Isabella  Thynne,  aud  is  waiting  for  her 
to  take  her  back." 

Fentham  left  his  horse  with  the  servant  and  ran  upstairs 
straight  to  his  wife,  and  as  Inglesant  followed  him  into  the 
house  he  met  Lady  Cardiff  and  his  brother,  who  came  in  from 
the  garden.  Eustace  Inglesant  was  radiant,  and  introduced 
Lady  Cardiff  to  his  brother  as  his  future  wife.  He  took  them 
into  a  private  room,  and  called  for  wine  and  cakes.  Johnny 
thought  it  best  not  to  tell  them  what  had  occurred,  but  merely 
said  that  Sir  Richard  aud  his  wife  were  upstairs ;  upon  which 
Eustace  sent  a  servant  up  with  his  compliments,  asking  them 


108  JOHN  inglesant;  [chap.  ix. 

to  come  and  join  them.  Both  Lady  Cardiff  and  Eustace 
appeared  conscious,  however,  that  some  blame  attached  to  them, 
for  they  expressed  great  surprise  at  the  absence  of  Lady  Isabella, 
and  took  pains  to  inform  Johnny  that  they  had  left  Lady  Fen- 
tham  with  her,  and  had  no  idea  she  was  going  away.  Sir 
Richard  and  Lady  Feiitham  joined  the  party,  and  appeared 
composed  and  happy,  and  they  had  not  sat  long  before  Lady 
Isabella's  coach  appeared  before  the  door,  and  her  ladyship  came 
in.  The  ladies  returned  to  Oxford  in  the  coach,  and  the  gentle- 
men on  horseback.  Nothing  was  said  by  the  latter  as  to  what 
had  occurred  until  after  they  had  left  Eustace  at  his  lodgings, 
and  Johnny  was  parting  with  Fentham  at  the  door  of  Lord 
Falkland,  to  whom  he  was  going.     Then  Sir  Richard  said, — 

"  Mr.  Inglesant,  my  wife  has  told  me  all,  and  has  told  me 
that  she  owes  everything  to  you,  even  to  this  last  blessing,  that 
there  is  no  secret  between  us.  I  beg  you  to  believe  two  things, 
— first,  that  nothing  I  can  do  or  say  can  ever  repay  the  obliga- 
tion that  I  owe  to  you  ;  secondly,  that  the  blame  of  this  mattei 
rests  mostly  with  me,  in  that  I  have  left  my  wife  too  much." 
Inglesant  waited  for  several  days  in  expectation  of  hearing 

from  Lord  H ,  but  no  message  came.     They  met  several 

times  and  passed  each  other  with  the  usual  comrtesies.  At  last 
Eustace  Inglesant  heard  from  one  of  his  lordshij^'s  friends  that 
the  latter  had  been  very  anxious  to  meet  Johnny,  but  had  been 
dissuaded. 

"  You  have  not  the  slightest  tangible  ground  of  offence  against 
young  Inglesant,"  they  told  him,  "and  you  have  every  cause  to 
keep  this  affair  quiet,  out  of  which  you  have  not  emerged  with 
any  great  triumph.  Inglesant  has  shown  by  the  line  of  con- 
duct he  adopted  that  he  desires  to  keep  it  close.  None  of  the 
rest  of  the  party  will  speak  of  it  for  their  own  sakes.  Were  it 
knoAvn,  it  woidd  ruin  you  at  once  with  the  King,  and  damage 
you  very  much  in  the  estimation  of  all  the  principal  men  here, 
who  are  Sir  Richard's  friends,  and  such  as  are  not  would  resent 
such  conduct  towards  a  man  engaged  on  his  master's  business. 
Besides  this,  you  are  not  a  remarkably  good  fencer,  whereas  John 
Inglesant  is  a  pupil  of  the  Jesuits,  and  master  of  all  their  arts . 
and  tricks  of  stabbing.  That  he  could  kill  you  in  five  minutes 
if  he  chose,  there  can  be  no  doubt." 

These  and  other  similar  arguments  finally  persuaded  Lord 
H to  restrain  his  desire  of  revenge,  which  was  the  easier 


CHAP.  IX.]  A  ROMANCE.  109 

for  liim  to  do  as  Inglesant  always  treated  him  when  they  met 
with  marked  deference  and  courtesy. 

The  marriage  of  Lady  Cardiff  and  Eustace  Inglesant  was 
hurried  forward,  and  took  place  at  Oxford  some  weeks  after  the 
foregoing  events ;  the  King  and  Queen  being  present  at  the  cere- 
mony. It  was  indeed  very  important  to  attach  this  wealthy 
couple  unmistakably  to  the  royal  party,  and  no  efforts  were 
Bpared  for  the  purpose.  Lady  Cardiff  and  her  husband,  how- 
ever, did  not  manifest  any  great  enthusiasm  in  the  royal  cause. 

The  music  of  the  wedding  festival  was  interrupted  by  the 
cannon  of  Newbmy,  where  Lord  Falkland  was  killed,  together 
with  a  sad  roll  of  gentlemen  of  honour  and  repute.  Lord 
Clarendon  says, — "Such  was  always  the  unequal  fate  that 
attended  this  melancholy  war,  that  while  some  obscm-e,  un- 
heard-of colonel  or  officer  was  missing  on  the  enemy's  side,  and 
some  citizen's  wife  bewailed  the  loss  of  her  husband,  there  were 
on  the  other  above  twenty  officers  of  the  field  and  persons  of 
honoiu-  and  pubhc  name  slain  upon  the  place,  and  more  of  the 
same  quahty  hurt."  In  this  battle  Inglesant  was  more  fortu- 
nate than  in  his  first,  for  he  was  not  hurt,  though  he  rode  in  the 
Lord  Biron's  regiment,  the  same  in  which  Lord  Falkland  wa? 
also  a  volunteer. 

The  King  returned  to  Oxford,  where  Inglesant  found  every 
one  in  great  dejection  of  mind ;  the  conduct  of  the  war  was 
severely  criticised,  the  army  discontented,  and  the  chief  com 
manders  engaged  in  reproaches  and  recriminations. 

One  afternoon  Inglesant  was  sent  for  to  Merton  College, 
where  the  Queen  lay,  and  where  the  King  spent  much  of  his 
time ;  where  he  found  the  Jesuit  standing  with  the  King  in 
one  of  the  windows,  and  Mr.  Jermyn,  who  had  just  been  made 
a  baron,  talking  to  the  Queen.  The  King  motioned  Inglesant 
to  approach  him,  and  the  Jesuit  explained  the  reason  he  had 
been  sent  for. 

The  trial  of  Archbishop  Laud  was  commencing,  and  in  order 
to  incite  the  people  against  him  Mr.  Prynne  had  pubUshed  the 
particulars  of  a  popish  plot  in  a  pamphlet  which  contained  the 
names  of  many  gentlemen,  both  Protestant  and  Catholic,  the 
publication  of  which  at  such  a  moment  excited  considerable 
uneasiness  among  their  relations  and  friends. 

"  I  wish  you,  Mr.  Inglesant,"  said  the  King,  "  to  ride  to 
London.     Mr.  Hall  has  provided  passes  for  you,  and  letters  to 


110  JOHN  INQiES ANT;  [CHAP.  K. 

several  of  his  friends.  The  new  French  Ambassador  is  landing ; 
I  wish  to  know  how  far  the  French  Court  is  true  to  me. 
Prynne's  wit  has  overreached  himself.  His  charges  have 
frightened  so  many  that  a  reaction  is  setting  in  in  favour  of  the 
Archbishop,  and  many  are  willing  to  testify  in  his  favour  in 
order  to  exonerate  themselves.  You  will  be  of  great  use  in 
finding  out  these  people.  Seek  every  one  who  is  mentioned  in 
Prynne's  libel;  many  of  them  are  men  of  influence.  Your 
familiar  converse  with  Papists,  in  other  respects  unfortunate, 
may  be  of  use  here." 

Inglesant  spent  some  time  in  London,  and  was  in  constant 
communication  with  Mr.  Bell,  the  Archbishop's  secretary.  He 
was  successful  in  procuring  evidence  from  among  the  Papists  of 
their  antiimthy  to  Laud,  and  in  various  other  ways  in  providing 
Bell  with  materials  for  defence.  Laud  was  informed  of  these 
acts  of  friendship,  and  being  in  a  very  low  and  broken  state, 
was  deeply  touched  that  a  comparative  stranger,  and  one  who 
had  been  under  no  obligation  to  liira,  should  show  so  much 
attachment,  and  exert  himself  so  much  in  his  service,  at  a  time 
when  the  greatest  danger  attended  any  one  so  doing,  and  when 
he  seemed  deserted  both  by  his  royal  master  and  by  those  on 
whom  he  had  showered  benefits  in  the  time  of  his  prosperity. 
He  sent  his  blessing  and  grateful  thanks,  the  thanks  of  aii  old 
and  dying  man,  which  would  be  all  the  more  valuable  as  they 
never  could  be  accompanied  by  any  earthly  favour.  Inglesant's 
name  was  associated  with  that  of  the  Archbishop,  and  the 
Jesuit's  aim  in  sending  him  to  London  was  accomplished. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Inglesant  was  of  so  much  use  in  gaining  information,  and 
managed  to  live  on  such  confidential  terms  with  many  in 
London  in  the  confidence  of  members  of  the  Parliament,  that 
he  remained  there  during  all  the  early  part  of  the  year,  and 
would  have  stayed  longer ;  but  the  enemies  of  the  Archbishop, 
who  pursued  him  with  a  malignant  and  remorseless  activity, 
set  their  eyes  at  last  upon  the  young  envoy,  and  he  was  advised 
to  leave  London,  at  any  rate  till  the  trial  was  over.  He  was 
very  unwilling  to  leave  the  Archbishop,  but  dared  not  run  the 


CHAP.  X.]  A  EOMANCE.  Ill 

risk  of  being  imprisoned,  and  thwarting  the  Jesuit's  schemes, 
and  therefore  left  London  about  the  end  of  May,  and  returned 
straight  to  Oxford. 

He  left  London  only  a  few  days  before  the  allied  armies  of 
Sir  W.  Waller  and  the  Earl  of  Essex,  and  had  no  sooner  arrived 
in  Oxford  than  the  news  of  the  advance  of  the  Parliamentary 
forces  caused  the  greatest  alarm.  The  next  day  Abingdon  was 
vacated  by  some  mistake,  and  the  rebels  took  possession  of  the 
whole  of  the  country  to  the  east  and  south  of  Oxford;  Sir 
William  Waller  being  on  the  south,  and  the  Earl  of  Essex  on 
the  east.  It  was  reported  in  London  that  the  King  intended 
to  surrender  to  the  Earl's  army,  and  such  a  proposition  was 
seriously  made  to  the  King  by  his  own  friends  a  few  days  after- 
wards in  Oxford.  The  royal  army  was  massed  about  the  city, 
most  of  the  foot  being  on  the  north  side ;  Inglesant  served  with 
the  foot  in  Colonel  Lake's  regiment  of  musketeers  and  pikes, 
taking  a  pike  in  the  front  rank.  It  was  a  weapon  which  the 
gentlemen  of  that  day  frequently  practised,  and  of  which  he  was 
a  master.  Several  other  gentlemen  volunteers  were  in  the  front 
rank  with  him.  The  Earl's  army  was  drawn  up  at  Islip,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  river  Cherwell,  having  marched  by  Oxford 
the  day  before,  in  open  file,  drums  beating  and  colours  flying, 
so  that  the  King  had  a  full  view  of  them  on  the  bright  fine 
day.  The  Earl  himself,  with  a  party  of  horse,  came  within 
cannon  shot  of  the  city,  and  the  King's  horse  charged  him 
several  times  without  any  great  hurt  on  either  side.  It  was  a 
gay  and  brilliant  scene  to  any  one  who  could  look  upon  it  with 
careless  and  indifferent  eyes. 

The  next  morning  a  strong  party  of  the  Earl's  army  en- 
deavoured to  pass  the  Cherwell  at  Gosford  bridge,  where  Sir 
Jacob  Astley  commanded,  and  where  the  regiment  in  which 
Inglesant  served  was  stationed.  The  bridge  was  barricaded 
with  breast-works  and  a  bastion,  but  the  Parliamentarian  army 
attempted  to  cross  the  stream  both  above  and  below.  They 
succeeded  in  crossing  opposite  to  Colonel  Lake's  regiment,  under 
a  heavy  fire  from  the  musketeers,  who  advanced  rank  by  rank 
between  the  troops  of  pikes  and  a  little  in  advance  of  them,  and 
after  giving  their  fire,  wheeled  off  to  the  right  and  left,  and  took 
their  places  again  in  the  rear.  '  The  rebels  reserved  their  fire, 
their  men  falling  at  every  step ;  but  they  still  advanced,  sup- 
ported by  troops  of  horse,  till  they  reached  the  Koyalists,  when 


112  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [CHAP.  X. 

they  delivered  their  fire,  closed  their  ranks,  and  charged,  their 
horse  charging  the  pikes  at  the  same  time.  The  ranks  of  the 
royal  musketeers  halted  and  closed  np,  and  the  pikes  drew  close 
together  shoulder  to  shoulder,  till  the  rapiers  of  their  officers 
met  across  the  front.  The  shock  was  very  severe,  and  the 
struggle  for  a  moment  undecided ;  but  the  pikes  standing  per- 
fectly fii'm,  owing  in  a  great  measure  to  the  number  of  gentle- 
men in  the  front  ranks,  and  the  musketeers  fighting  with  great 
courage,  the  enemy  began  to  give  way,  and  having  been  much 
broken  before  they  came  to  the  charge,  fell  into  disorder,  and 
were  driven  back  across  the  stream,  the  Royalists  following  them 
to  the  opposite  bank,  and  even  pursuing  them  up  the  slope. 
Ingiesant  had  noticed  an  officer  on  the  opposite  side  who  was 
fighting  with  gi'eat  courage,  and  as  they  crossed  the  river  he 
saw  him  stumble  and  nearly  fall,  though  he  appeared  to  struggle 
forward  on  the  opposite  slope  to  where  an  old  thorn  tree  broke 
the  rank  of  the  pikes.  Johnny  came  close  to  him  and  recog- 
nized him  .as  the  Mr.  Thorne  whom  he  had  known  at  Gidding. 
As  he  knew  the  regiment  would  be  halted  immediately  he  fell 
out  of  his  rank,  leaving  his  file  to  the  bringer-up  or  lieutenant 
behind  him,  and  stooped  over  his  old  rival,  who  evidently  was 
desperately  hurt.  He  raised  his  head,  and  gave  him  some  aqua 
vitcB  from  his  flask.  The  other  knew  him  at  once,  and  tried  to 
speak;  but  his  strength  was  too  far  gone,  and  his  utterance 
failed  him.  He  seemed  to  give  over  the  efibrt,  and  lay  back  in 
Inglesant's  arms,  staining  his  friend  with  his  blood.  Ingiesant 
asked  him  if  he  had  any  mission  he  would  wish  performed,  but 
the  other  shook  his  head,  and  seemed  to  give  himself  to  prayer. 
After  a  minute  or  two  he  seemed  to  rally,  and  his  face  became 
very  calm.  Opening  his  eyes,  he  looked  at  Johnny  steadily  and 
with  affection,  and  said,  slowly  and  with  difficulty,  but  still  with 
a  look  of  rest  and  peace, — 

"  Mr.  Ingiesant,  you  spoke  to  me  once  of  standing  together 
in  a  brighter  dawn ;  I  did  not  believe  you,  but  it  was  true ;  the 
dawn  is  breaking — and  it  is  bright." 

As  he  spoke  a  volley  of  musketry  shook  the  hill-side,  and  the 
regiment  came  down  the  slope  at  a  run,  and  carrying  Ingiesant 
with  them,  crossed  the  river,  and,  halting  on  the  other  side, 
wheeled  about  and  faced  the  passage  in  the  same  order  in  which 
they  had  stood  at  first.  This  dangerous  manoeuvre  was  executed 
only  just  in  time,  for  the  enemy  advanced  in  great  force  to  the 


CHAP.  X.]  A  ROMANCE.  113 

river-side ;  but  the  Royalists  being  also  very  strong,  they  did 
not  attempt  to  pass.  After  facing  each  other  for  some  time, 
the  fighting  having  ceased  all  along  the  line,  Inglesant  spoke  to 
his  officer,  and  got  leave  to  cross  the  river  with  a  flag  of  truce 
to  seek  his  friend.  An  officer  from  the  other  side  met  him, 
most  of  the  enemy's  troops  having  fallen  back  some  distance 
from  the  river.  He  was  an  old  soldier,  evidently  a  Low-country 
officer,  and  not  much  of  a  Puritan,  and  he  greeted  Inglesant 
politely  as  a  fellow-soldier. 

Inglesant  told  him  his  eiTand,  and  that  he  was  anxious  to 
find  out  his  friend's  body,  if,  as  he  feared,  he  woidd  be  found  to 
have  breathed  his  last.  They  went  to  the  old  thorn,  where, 
indeed,  they  found  Mr.  Thorne  quite  dead.  Several  of  the  rebel 
officers  gathered  round.  Mr.  Thorne  was  evidently  well  known, 
and  they  spoke  of  him  with  respect  and  regard.  Inglesant 
stopped,  looking  down  on  him  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then 
turned  to  go. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  raising  his  hat,  "I  leave  him  in 
your  care.  He  was,  as  you  have  well  said,  a  brave  and  a  good 
man.  i  crossed  his  path  twice — once  in  love  and  once  in  war 
— and  at  both  times  he  acted  as  a  gallant  gentleman  and  a  man 
of  God.     I  wish  you  good  day." 

He  turned  away,  and  went  down  to  the  river,  fi^om  which 
his  regiment  had  by  this  time  also  fallen  back,  the  others  look 
ing  after  him  as  he  went. 

"  Who  is  that  V  said  a  stern  and  grim-looking  Piuitan  officer. 
"He  does  not  speak  as  the  graceless  Cavaliers  mostly  do." 

"His  name  is  Inglesant,"  said  a  quiet,  pale  man,  in  dark 
and  plain  clothes ;  "he  is  one  of  the  King's  servants,  a  con- 
cealed Papist,  and,  they  say,  a  Jesuit.  I  have  seen  him  often 
at  Whitehall." 

"Thou  wilt  not  see  him  much  longer,  brother,"  said  the 
other  grimly,  "either  at  Whitehall  or  elsewhere.  It  were  a 
good  deed  to  prevent  his  further  deceiving  the  poor  and  ignorant 
folk,"  and  he  raised  his  piece  to  fire. 

"  Scarcely,"  said  the  other  quietly,  "  since  he  came  to  do 
us  service  and  comrtesy."  But  he  made  no  effort  to  restrain 
the  Piuitan,  looking  on,  indeed,  with  a  sort  of  quiet  interest  aa 
to  what  would  happen. 

"  Thou  art  enslaved  over  much  to  the  customs  of  tliia 
worid,  brother,"  said  the  other,  still  with  his  grave  smilo  ; 

I 


114  JOHN  inglesant;  [chap.  X. 

"knowest  tlioii  not  that  it  is  the  part  of  the  saints  militant  to 
root  out  iniquity  from  the  earth  1" 

He  arranged  his  piece  to  fire,  and  would  no  doubt  have  done 
so ;  but  the  Low-country  officer,  who  had  been  looking  on  in 
silence,  suddenly  threw  himsehf  upon  the  weapon,  and  wrested 
it  out  of  his  hand. 

"  By  my  soul,  Master  Fight-the-fight,"  he  said,  "  that  passes 
a  joke.  The  good  cause  is  well  enough,  and  the  saints  mili- 
tant and  triumphant,  and  all  the  rest  of  it ;  but  to  shoot  a 
man  under  a  flag  of  truce  was  never  yet  required  of  any  saint, 
whether  militant  or  triumphant." 

The  other  looked  at  him  severely  as  he  took  back  his 
weapon. 

"  Thou  art  in  the  bonds  of  iniquity  thyself,"  he  said,  "  and 
in  the  land  of  darkness  and  the  shadow  of  death.  The  Lord's 
cause  will  never  prosper  while  it  puts  trust  in  such  as  thou." 
But  he  made  no  fm-ther  attempt  against  Inglesant,  who,  indeed, 
by  this  time  had  crossed  the  river,  and  was  out  of  musket  shot 
on  the  opposite  bank. 

A  few  days  afterwards  the  King  left  Oxford  and  went  into 
the  West.  Inglesant  remained  in  garrison,  and  took  his  share 
in  all  the  expeditions  of  any  kind  that  were  undertaken.  The 
Eoman  Catholics  were  at  this  time  very  strong  in  Oxford ;  they 
celebrated  mass  every  day,  and  had  frequent  sermons  at  which 
many  of  the  Protestants  attended ;  but  it  was  thought  among 
the  Church  people  to  be  an  extreme  thing  to  do,  and  any  of  the 
commanders  who  did  it  excited  suspicion  thereby.  The  Chmrch  of 
England  people  were  by  this  time  growing  jealous  of  the  power 
and  unrestrained  license  of  the  Catholics,  and  the  Jesuit  warned 
Inglesant  to  attach  himself  more  to  the  English  Chiu:ch  party, 
and  avoid  being  much  seen  with  extreme  Papists.  Colonel 
Gage,  a  Papist,  was  appointed  governor  by  the  King;  but 
being  a  very  jDrudent  man  and  a  general  favomite,  as  well  as  an 
excellent  officer,  the  appointment  did  not  give  much  offence. 
Inglesant  was  present  at  Cropredy  Bridge,  which  battle  or 
skirmish  was  fought  after  the  King  returned  to  Oxford  from  his 
hasty  march  through  Worcestershire,  and  was  wounded  severely 
in  the  head  by  a  sword  cut — a  wound  which  he  thought  little 
of  at  the  time,  but  which  long  afterwards  made  itself  felt. 
Notwithstanding  this  wound  he  intended  following  the  King 
into  the  West,  for  His  Majesty  had  latterly  shown  a  greater 


CHAP.  X.]  A  ROMANCR  115 

kindness  to  him,  and  a  wish  to  keep  him  near  his  person ;  but 
Father  St.  Clare,  after  an  interview  with  the  King,  tokl  Ingle- 
sant  that  he  had  a  mission  for  him  to  perform  in  London,  and 
so  kept  him  in  Oxford. 

The  trial  of  the  Archbishop  was  dragging  slowly  on  through 
the  year,  and  the  Jesuit  procured  Inglesant  another  pass  and 
directed  him  to  endeavour  in  every  way  to  assist  the  Archbishop 
in  his  trial,  without  fear  of  his  prosecutors,  telling  him  that  he 
could  procure  his  liberation  even  if  he  were  put  in  prison,  which 
he  did  not  believe  he  would  be.  Inglesant,  therefore,  on  his 
return  to  London,  gave  himself  heartily  to  assisting  the  counsel 
and  secretary  of  the  Archbishop,  and  found  himself  perfectly 
unmolested  in  so  doing.  He  lodged  at  a  druggist's  over  against 
the  Goat  Tavern,  near  Toy  Bridge  in  the  Strand,  and  frequented 
the  ordinary  at  Haycock's,  near  the  Palsgrave's  Head  Tavern, 
where  the  Parliament  men  much  resorted.  Here  he  met  among 
others  Sir  Henry  Blount,  who  had  been  a  gentleman  pensioner 
of  the  King's,  and  had  waited  on  him  in  his  tiu-n  to  York  and 
Edgehill  fight,  but  then,  returning  to  London,  walked  into 
Westminster  Hall,  with  his  sword  by  his  side,  so  coolly  as  to 
astonish  the  Parliamentarians.  He  was  summoned  before  the 
Parliament,  but  pleading  that  he  only  did  his  duty  as  a  servant, 
was  acquitted.  This  man,  who  was  a  man  of  judgment  and 
experience,  was  of  great  use  to  Inglesant  in  many  ways,  and 
put  him  in  the  way  of  finding  much  that  might  assist  the  Arch- 
bishop ;  but  it  occurred  to  Inglesant  more  than  once  to  doubt 
whether  the  latter  would  benefit  much  by  his  advocacy,  a 
known  pupil  of  the  Papists  as  he  was.  This  caused  him  to 
keep  more  quiet  than  he  otherwise  would  have  done ;  but  what 
was  doubtless  the  Jesuit's  chief  aim  was  completely  answered ; 
for  the  Church  people,  both  in  London  and  the  country,  who 
regarded  the  Archbishop  as  a  martyr,  becoming  aware  of  the 
sincere  and  really  useful  exertions  that  Inglesant  had  made 
with  such  untiring  energy,  attached  themselves  entirely  to  him, 
and  took  him  completely  into  their  confidence,  so  that  he  could 
at  this  time  have  depended  on  any  of  them  for  assistance  and 
support.  The  diff'erent  parties  were  at  this  time  so  confused 
and  intermixed — the  Papists  playing  in  many  cases  a  double 
game — that  it  would  have  been  difficult  for  Inglesant,  who  was 
I)artly  in  the  confidence  of  all,  to  know  which  way  to  act,  had 
lie  stood  alone.     He  saw  now,  more  than  he  had  ever  done, 


116  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [CHAP.  X. 

the  intrigues  of  that  party  among  the  Papists  who  favoured 
the  Parliament,  and  was  astonished  at  their  skill  and  duplicity. 
At  last  the  Commons,  failing  to  find  the  Archbishop  guilty  of 
anything  worthy  of  death,  passed  a  Bill  of  Attainder,  as  they 
had  done  with  Lord  Straftbrd,  and  con('emned  him  with  no 
precedence  of  law.  The  Lords  hesitated  to  pass  the  Bill,  and 
on  Christmas  Eve,  1644,  demanded  a  -conference  with  the 
Commons.  The  next  day  was  the  strangest  Christmas  Day 
Inglesant  had  ever  spent.  The  wliole  city  was  ordered  to  fast 
in  the  most  solemn  way  by  a  special  ordinance  of  Parliament, 
and  strict  inquisition  was  made  to  see  that  this  ordinance  was 
carried  out  by  the  people.  Inglesant  was  well  acquainted  with 
Mr.  Hale,  afterwards  Chief  Justice  Hale,  one  of  the  Archbishop's 
counsel,  then  a  young  lawyer  in  Lincoln's  Inn,  who,  it  was  said, 
had  composed  the  defence  which  Mr,  Hern,  the  senior  counsel, 
had  spoken  before  the  Lords.  Johnny  spent  part  of  the  morn- 
ing with  this  gentleman,  and  in  the  afternoon  walked  down  to 
thft  Tower  from  Lincoln's  Inn.  The  streets  were  very  quiet, 
the  shops  closed,  and  a  feeling  of  sadness  and  dread  hung  over 
all — at  any  rate  in  Inglesant's  mind.  At  the  turnstile  at 
Holborn  he  went  into  a  bookseller's  shop  kept  by  a  man  named 
Turner,  a  Papist,  who  sold  popish  books  and  pamphlets.  Here 
he  found  an  apothecary,  who  also  was  useful  to  the  Catholics, 
making  "Hosts"  for  them.  These  both  immediately  began 
to  speak  to  Inglesant  about  the  Archbishop  and  the  Papists, 
expressing  their  surprise  that  he  should  exert  himself  so  much 
in  his  favoiu",  telling  him  that  the  Papists,  to  a  man,  hated  him 
and  desired  his  death,  and  that  a  gentleman  lately  returned 
from  Italy  had  that  very  day  informed  the  bookseller  that  the 
news  of  the  Archbishop's  execution  was  eagerly  expected  in 
Rome.  The  Lords  were  certain  to  give  way,  they  said,  and 
the  Archbishop  w^as  as  good  as  dead  akeady.  They  were  evi- 
dently very  anxious  to  extract  from  Inglesant  whether  he  acted 
on  his  own  responsibility  or  from  the  directions  of  the  Jesuit ; 
but  Inglesant  was  much  too  prudent  to  commit  himself  in  any 
way.  When  he  had  left  them  he  went  straight  to  the  Tower, 
where  he  was  admitted  to  the  Archbishop,  whom  he  found 
expecting  him.  He  gave  him  all  the  intelligence  he  could,  and 
all  the  gossip  of  the  day  which  he  had  picked  up,  including  the 
sayings  of  the  wits  at  the  taverns  and  ordinaries  respecting  the 
trial  and  the  Archbishop,  of  whom  all  men's  minds  were  fuli 


CHAP.  X.]  A  HOMANCK  117 

Laud  was  inclined  to  trust  somewhat  to  the  Lords'  resistance, 
and  Inglesant  had  scarcely  the  heart  to  refute  his  opinion.  He 
told  him  the  feeling  of  the  Papists,  and  his  fear  that  even  the 
Catholics  at  Oxford  were  not  acting  sincerely  with  him.  After 
the  failure  of  the  King's  pardon,  Laud  entertained  little  hope 
from  any  other  efforts  Charles  might  be  disposed  to  make ;  but 
Inglesant  promised  him  to  ride  to  Oxford,  and  see  the  Jesuit 
again.  This  he  did  the  next  day,  before  the  Committee  of  the 
Commons  met  the  Lords,  which  they  did  not  do  till  the  2d  of 
January.  He  had  a  long  interview  with  the  Jesuit,  and  urged 
as  strongly  as  he  could  the  cruelty  and  impolicy  of  letting  the 
Archbishop  die  without  an  effort  to  save  him. 

"  What  can  be  done  ?"  said  the  Jesuit ;  "  the  King  can  do 
nothing.  All  that  he  can  do  in  the  way  of  pardon  he  has  done  : 
besides,  I  never  see  the  King ;  the  feeling  against  the  Catholics 
is  now  so  strong  that  His  Majesty  dare  not  hold  any  communi- 
cations with  me." 

Inglesant  inquired  what  the  policy  of  the  Eoman  Catholic 
Church  really  was;  was  it  favourable  to  the  King  and  the 
English  Church,  or  against  it  1 

The  Jesuit  hesitated,  but  then,  with  that  appearance  of 
frankness  which  always  won  upon  his  pupil,  he  confessed  that 
the  policy  of  the  Papal  Court  had  latterly  gone  very  much  more 
in  favour  of  the  party  who  wished  to  destroy  the  English  Church 
than  it  had  formerly  done ;  and  that  at  present  the  Pope  and  the 
Catholic  powers  abroad  were  only  disposed  to  help  the  King  on 
such  terms  as  he  coidd  not  accept,  and  at  the  same  time  retain 
the  favoiu-  of  the  Chiurch  and  Protestant  party ;  and  he  acknow- 
ledged that  he  had  himself  imder-estimated  the  opposition  of  the 
bulk  of  English  people  to  Popery.  He  then  requested  Inglesant 
to  retm-n  to  London,  and  continue  to  show  himself  openly  in 
support  of  the  Archbishop,  assuring  him  that  in  this  way  alone 
could  he  fit  himself  for  performing  a  most  important  service  to 
the  King,  which,  he  said,  he  should  be  soon  able  to  point  out 
to  him.  The  old  familiar  charm,  which  had  lost  none  of  its 
powei"  over  Johnny,  would,  of  itself,  have  been  sufficient  to 
make  him  perfectly  pliant  to  the  Jesuit's  v/ill.  He  returned  to 
London,  but  was  refused  admission  to  the  Archl  ishop  until  after 
the  Committee  of  the  Commons  had  met  the  Lords,  and  on  the 
3d  of  January  the  Lords  passed  the  Bill  of  Attainder.  When 
the  news  of  this  reached  the  Archbishop,  he  broke  off  his  history, 


118  JOHN  INGLESANI;  [chap.  x. 

which  he  had  written  from  day  to  day,  and  prepared  himself  for 
death.  He  petitioned  that  he  might  be  beheaded  instead  of 
hanged,  and  the  Commons  at  last,  after  much  difficulty,  granted 
this  request.  On  the  6th  of  January  it  was  ordered  by  both 
Houses  that  he  should  suffer  on  the  10th.  On  the  same  day 
Inglesant  received  a  special  message  from  the  Jesuit  in  these 
words,  in  cypher  : — "  Apply  for  admission  to  the  scaffold ;  it 
will  be  granted  you." 

Very  much  surprised,  Inglesant  went  to  Alderman  Penning- 
ton, and  requested  admission  to  attend  the  Archbishop  to  the 
scaffold,  pleading  that  he  was  one  of  the  King's  household,  and 
attached  to  the  Archbishop  from  a  boy. 

Pennington  examined  him  concerning  his  being  in  London, 
his  pass,  and  place  of  abode,  but  Inglesant  thought  more  from 
curiosity  than  from  any  other  motive ;  for  it  was  evident  that 
he  knew  all  about  him,  and  his  behaviour  in  London.  He  asked 
him  many  questions  about  Oxford  and  the  Catholics,  and  seemed 
to  enjoy  any  embarrassment  that  Inglesant  was  put  to  in  reply- 
mg.  Finally  he  gave  him  the  warrant  of  admission,  and  dis- 
missed him.  But  as  he  left  the  room  he  called  him  back,  and 
said  with  great  emjDhasis, — f 

"  I  would  warn  you,  young  man,  to  look  very  well  to  your 
steps.  You  are  treading  a  path  full  of  pitfalls,  few  of  which 
you  see  yourself.  All  your  steps  are  known,  and  those  are 
known  who  are  leading  you.  They  think  they  hold  the  wires 
in  their  own  hands,  and  do  not  know  that  they  are  but  the 
puppets  themselves.  If  you  are  not  altogether  in  the  snare  of 
the  destroyer  come  out  from  them,  and  escape  both  destruction 
in  this  world  and  the  wrath  that  is  to  come." 

Inglesant  thanked  him  and  took  his  leave.  He  could  not 
help  thinking  that  there  was  much  truth  in  the  alderman's 
description  of  his  position. 

The  next  three  days  the  Archbishop  spent  in  preparing  for 
death  and  composing  his  speech ;  and  on  the  day  on  which  he 
was  to  die,  Inglesant  found  when  he  reached  the  Tower,  that 
he  was  at  his  private  prayers,  at  which  he  continued  until 
Pennington  arrived  to  conduct  him  to  the  scaffold.  When  he 
came  out  and  found  Inglesant  there,  he  seemed  pleased,  as  well 
he  might,  for,  excepting  Stern,  his  chaplain,  the  only  one  who 
was  allowed  to  attend  him,  he  was  alone  amongst  his  enemies. 
He  ascended  the  scaffold  with  a  brave  and  cheerfuJ  com^age, 


CHAP.  X.]  A  ROMANCE.  119 

some  few  of  the  vast  crowd  assembled  reviling  him,  but  the 
greater  part  preserving  a  decent  and  respectful  silence.  The 
chaplain  and  Inglesant  followed  him  close,  and  it  was  well  they 
did  so,  for  a  crowd  of  people,  whether  by  permission  or  not  is 
not  known,  pressed  up  upon  the  scaffold,  as  Dr.  Heylyn  said, 
"upon  the  theatre  to  see  the  tragedy,"  so  that  they  pressed  upon 
the  Archbishop,  and  scarcely  gave  him  room  to  die.  Inglesant 
had  never  seen  such  a  wonderful  sight  before — once  afterwards 
he  saw  one  like  it,  more  terrible  by  far.  The  little  island  of 
the  scaffold,  siurounded  by  a  surging,  pressing  sea  of  heads 
and  struggHng  men,  covering  the  whole  extent  of  Tower  HiU : 
the  houses  and  windows  round  full  of  people,  the  walls  and 
towers  behind  covered  too.  People  pressed  underneath  the 
scaffold ;  people  climbed  up  the  posts  and  hung  suspended  by 
the  rails  that  fenced  it  round ;  people  pressed  up  the  steps  till 
there  was  scarcely  room  within  the  rails  to  stand.  The  soldiers 
on  guard  seemed  careless  what  was  done,  probably  feeling  cer- 
tain that  there  was  no  fear  of  any  attempt  to  rescue  the  hated 
priest. 

Inglesant  recognized  many  Churchmen  and  friends  of  the 
Archbishop  among  the  crowd,  and  saw  that  they  recognized  him, 
and  that  his  nam  3  was  passed  about  among  both  friends  and 
enemies.  The  Archbishop  read  his  speech  with  great  calmness 
and  distinctness,  the  opening  moving  many  to  tears,  and  when 
he  had  finished,  gave  the  papers  to  Stern  to  give  to  his  other 
chaplains,  praying  God  to  bestow  His  mercies  and  blessings 
upon  them.  He  spoke  to  a  man  named  Hind,  who  sat  taking 
down  his  speech,  begging  him  not  to  do  him  wrong  by  mistak- 
ing him.  Then  begging  the  crowd  to  stand  back  and  give  him 
room,  he  knelt  down  to  the  block;  but  seeing  through  the 
chinks  of  the  boards  the  people  imdemeath,  he  begged  that  they 
might  be  removed,  as  he  did  not  wish  that  his  blood  should  fall 
upon  the  heads  of  the  people.  Surely  no  man  was  ever  so 
crowded  upon  and  badgered  to  his  death.  Then  he  took  off  his 
doublet,  and  would  have  addressed  himself  to  prayer,  but  was 
not  allowed  to  do  so  in  peace ;  one  Sir  John  Clotworthy,  an 
Irishman,  pestering  him  with  religious  questions.  After  he  had 
answered  one  or  two  meekly,  he  turned  to  the  executioner  and 
forgave  him,  and  kneeling  down,  after  a  very  short  prayer,  to 
which  Hind  listened  with  his  head  down  and  wrote  word  for 
word,  the  axe  with  a  single  blow  cut  off  his  head.     He  waa 


120  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap.  xi. 

buried  in  All  Hallows  Barking,  a  great  crowd  of  people  attend- 
ing him  to  the  grave  in  silence  and  great  respect, — the  Church 
of  England  service  read  over  him  without  interruption,  though 
it  had  long  been  discontinued  in  all  the  Churches  in  London. 

News  of  his  death  spread  rapidly  over  England,  and  was 
received  by  all  Church  people  with  religious  fervour  as  the  news 
of  a  martyrdom ;  and  wherever  it  was  told,  it  was  added  that 
Mr.  John  Inglesant,  the  King's  servant,  who  had  used  every 
effort  to  aid  the  Archbishop  on  his  trial,  was  with  him  on  the 
scaffold  to  the  last.  Inglesant  returned  to  Oxford,  where  the 
Jesuit  received  him  cordially.  He  had,  it  would  have  seemed, 
failed  in  his  mission,  for  the  Archbishop  was  dead ;  nevertheless, 
the  Jesuit's  aim  was  fully  won. 

On  the  King's  leaving  Oxford,  before  the  advance  of  General 
Fairfax,  Inglesant  accompanied  him,  and  was  present  at  the 
battle  of  Naseby,  so  fatal  to  the  royal  cause.  No  mention  of 
this  battle,  however,  is  to  be  found  among  the  papers  from  which 
these  memoirs  are  compiled ;  and  the  fact  that  Inglesant  was 
present  at  it  is  known  only  by  an  incidental  reference  to  it  at  a 
later  period.  Amid  the  confusion  of  the  flight,  and  the  subse- 
quent wanderings  of  the  King  before  he  returned  to  Oxford,  it 
is  impossible  to  follow  less  important  events  closely,  and  it  does 
not  seem  clear  whether  Inglesant  met  with  the  Jesuit  immedi- 
ately after  the  battle  or  not.  Acting,  however,  there  can  be 
no  doubt,  with  his  approval,  if  not  by  his  direction,  he  appears 
very  soon  after  to  have  found  his  way  to  Gidding,  where  he 
remained  during  several  weeks. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

The  autumn  days  passed  quickly  over,  and  with  them  the  last 
peacefid  hours  that  Inglesant  would  know  for  a  long  time,  and 
that  youthful  freshness  and  bloom  and  peace  which  he  would 
never  know  again.  Such  a  haven  as  this,  such  purity  and 
holiness,  such  rest  and  repose,  lovely  as  the  autumn  sunshine 
resting  on  the  foliage  and  the  grass,  would  never  be  open  to 
him  again.  It  was  bng  before  rest  and  peace  came  to  him  at 
all,  and  when  they  did  oome,  under  different  skies  and  an  altered 
life,  it  was  a  rest  j.fter  a  stern  battle  that  left  its  scars  deep  in 


CHAr.  XL]  "         A  ROMANCR  121 

his  very  life ;  it  was  apart  from  every  one  of  his  early  frienda ; 
it  was  unblest  by  first  love  and  early  glimpse  of  heaven. 

It  was  about  the  end  of  October  that  he  received  a  message 
from  the  Jesuit,  which  was  the  summons  to  leave  this  paradise 
sanctified  to  him  by  the  hohest  moments  of  his  life.  The  family 
were  at  evening  prayers  in  the  Church  when  the  messenger 
arrived,  and  Inglesant,  as  usual,  was  kneeling  where  he  could 
see  Mary  Collet,  and  probably  was  thinking  more  of  her  than 
of  the  prayers.  Nevertheless  he  remembered  afterwards,  when 
he  thought  during  the  long  lonely  hours  of  every  moment  spent 
at  Gidding,  that  the  third  collect  was  being  read,  and  that  at 
the  words  "  Lighten  our  darkuess  "  he  looked  up  at  some  noise, 
and  saw  the  sunlight  from  the  west  window  shining  into  the 
Chiu:ch  upon  Mary  Collet  and  the  kneeling  women,  and,  beyond 
them,  standing  in  the  dark  shadow  under  the  window,  the 
messenger  of  the  Jesuit  whom  he  knew.  He  got  up  quietly 
and  went  out.  From  his  marriage  feast,  nay,  from  the  table  of 
the  Lord,  he  would  have  got  up  all  the  same  had  that  summons 
come  to  him. 

His  whole  life  from  his  boyhood  had  been  so  formed  upon 
the  idea  of  some  day  proving  himself  worthy  of  the  confidence 
reposed  in  him  (that  perfect  unexpressed  confidence  which  won 
his  very  natm^e  to  a  passionate  devotion  capable  of  the  supreme 
action,  whatever  it  might  be,  to  which  all  his  training  had 
tended),  that  to  have, faltered  at  any  moment  would  have  been 
more  impossible  to  him  than  suicide,  than  any  self-contradictory 
action  could  have  been — as  impossible  as  for  a  proud  man  to 
become  suddenly  naturally  humble,  or  a  merciful  man  cruel. 
That  there  might  have  been  found  in  the  universe  a  poWer  cap- 
able of  overmastering  this  master  passion  is  possible  j  hitherto, 
however,  it  had  not  been  found. 

Outside  the  Church  the  messenger  gave  him  a  letter  from 
the  Jesuit,  which,  as  usual,  was  very  short. 

"Jack,  come  to  me  at  Oxford  as  soon  as  you  can.  The 
time  for  which  we  have  waited  is  come.  The  service  which 
you  and  none  other  can  perform,  and  which  I  have  always  fore- 
seen for  you,  is  waiting  to  be  accomplished.     I  depend  on  you." 

Inglesant  ordered  some  refreshment  to  be  given  to  the  mes- 
senger, and  his  own  horses  to  be  got  out.  Then  he  went  back 
into  the  Church,  and  waited  till  the  prayers  were  over. 

The  family  expressed  great  regret  at  parting  with  him ;  they 


122  JOHN  inglesant;  [ohap.  xi. 

were  in  a  continual  state  of  apprehension  from  their  Puritan 
neighbours ;  but  Inglesant's  presence  was  no  defence  but  rather 
the  contrary,  and  it  is  possible  that  some  of  them  may  have 
been  glad  that  he  was  going. 

Mary  Collet  looked  sadly  and  wistfully  at  him  as  they  stood 
before  the  porch  of  the  house  in  the  setting  sunlight,  the  long 
shadows  resting  on  the  grass,  the  evening  wind  murmuring  in 
the  tall  trees  and  shaking  down  the  falling  leaves. 

"  Do  you  know  what  this  service  is  f  she  said  at  last. 

"  I  cannot  make  the  slightest  guess,"  he  answered. 

"Whatever  it  is  you  will  do  if?"  she  asked  again. 

"  Certainly ;  to  do  otherwise  would  be  to  contradict  the 
tenor  of  my  life." 

"  It  may  be  something  that  your  conscience  cannot  approve," 
she  said. 

"  li  is  too  late  to  think  of  that,"  he  said,  smiling ;  "  I  should 
have  thought  of  that  years  ago,  when  I  was  a  boy  at  Westacre, 
and  this  man  came  to  me  as  an  angel  of  light — to  me,  a  weak, 
ignorant,  country  lad — to  me,  who  owe  him  everything  that  I 
am,  everything  that  I  know,  everything — even  the  power  that 
enables  me  to  act  for  him." 

Did  she  remember  how  he  had  once  offered  himself  without 
reserve  to  her,  then  at  least  without  any  reservation  in  favour  of 
this  man  ?  Did  she  regret  that  she  had  not  encouraged  this 
other  attraction,  or  did  she  see  that  the  same  thing  would  have 
happened  whether  she  had  accepted  him  or  no  1  She  gave  no 
indication  of  either  of  these  thoughts. 

"  I  think  you  owe  something  to  another,"  she  said,  softly ; 
"  to  One  who  knew  you  before  this  Jesuit ;  to  One  who  was 
leading  you  onward  before  he  came  across  your  path ;  to  One 
who  gave  you  high  and  noble  qualities,  without  which  the 
Jesuit  could  have  given  you  nothing ;  to  One  whom  you  have 
professed  to  love;  to- One  for  whose  Divine  Voice  you  have 
desired  to  listen.     Johnny,  will  you  listen  no  longer  for  it?" 

He  never  forgot  her,  standing  before  him  with  her  hands 
clasped  and  her  eyes  raised  to  his, — the  flush  of  eager  speaking 
on  her  face, — those  great  eyes,  moistened  again  with  tears,  that 
pierced  through  him  to  his  very  soul, — her  trembling  lip, — 
the  irresistible  nobleness  of  her  whole  figure, — her  winning 
manner,  through  which  the  love  she  had  confessed  for  him  spoke 
in  every  part.     He  never  saw  her  again  but  once — then  in  how 


CHAP.  XL]  A  ROMANCK  123 

different  a  posture  and  scene;  and  the  beauty  of  this  sight 
never  went  out  of  his  life,  but  it  produced  no  effect  upon  his 
purpose;  indeed,  how  could  it,  when  his  purpose  was  not  so 
much  a  part  of  him  as  he  was  a  part  of  it  ?  He  looked  at  her 
iTTsilence,  and  his  loye  and  admiration  spoke  out  so  unmistak- 
ably in  his  look  that  Mary  never  afterwards  doubted  that  he 
had  loved  her.  He  had  not  power  to  explain  his  conduct ;  he 
could  not  have  told  himself  why  he  acted  as  he  did.  Amid  the 
distracting  purposes  which  tore  his  heart  in  twain  he  could  say 
nothing  but, — 

"  It  may  not  be  so  bad  as  you  think." 

Mary  gave  him  her  hand,  turned  from  him,  and  went  into 
the  house ;  and  he  let  her  go — her  of  whom  the  sight  must 
have  been  to  him  as  that  of  an  angel — he  let  her  go  without 
an  effort  to  stay  her,  even  to  prolong  the  siglit.  His  horses, 
were  waiting,  and  one  of  his  servants  would  follow  with  his 
mails;  he  mounted  and  rode  away.  The  sun  had  set  in  a 
cloud,  and  the  autumn  evening  was  dark  and  gloomy,  yet  he 
rode  along  without  any  appearance  of  depression,  steadily  and 
quietly,  like  a  man  going  about  some  business  he  has  long  ex- 
pected to  perform.  I  cannot  even  say  he  was  sad  :  that  moment 
had  come  to  him  which  from  his  boyhood  he  had  looked  forward 
to.  Now  at  last  he  could  prove,  at  any  rate  to  himself,  that 
he  was  equal  to  that  effort  which  it  had  been  his  ideal  to 
attempt. 

When  Inglesant  reached  Oxford  he  sought  out  the  Jesuit, 
and  found  him  alone.  The  royal  affairs  were  at  the  lowest  ebb. 
Since  the  battle  of  Naseby  the  King  had  done  little  but  wander 
about  like  a  fugitive.  He  was  now  at  Oxford;  but  it  was 
doubtful  whether  he  could  stay  there  in  safety  through  the 
winter,  and  certainly  he  would  not  be  able  to  do  so  after  the 
campaign  began,  unless  some  change  in  his  fortunes  meanwhile 
occurred.  All  this  Inglesant  knew  only  too  well.  The  ruin 
of  the  royal  cause,  entailing  his  own  ruin  and  that  of  all  his 
friends,  was  too  palpable  to  need  description.  The  Jesuit 
therefore  at  once  proceeded  to  the  means  which  were  prepared 
to  remedy  this  disastrous  state  of  things.  The  Lord  Lieutenant 
of  Ireland,  the  Duke  of  Ormond,  had,  with  the  consent  of  the 
King,  concluded  a  truce  with  the  Irish,  who,  after  long  years 
of  oppression,  spoliation,  and  misery,  had,  a  few  years  before, 
broken  out  suddenly  in  rebellion,  and  massacred  hundreds  of 


124  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [cHAP.  XI. 

the  unprepared  Protestants,  men,  women,  and  children,  under 
circumstances,  as  is  admitted  by  Catholics,  and  is  perhaps 
scarcely  to  be  wondered  at,  of  frightful  cruelty.  A  feeling  of 
intense  hatred  and  dread  of  these  rebels  had  consecpiently  filled 
the  minds  o'f  the  English  Protestants,  both  Royalists  and  Parlia- 
raentarians ;  a  feeling  in  which  horror  at  murderous  savages— 
for  as  such  they  not  unnaturally  regarded  the  Irish — was  united 
with  the  old  hatred  aud  fear  of  popish  massacres  and  cruelties. 
The  Parliament  had  remonstrated  with  the  King  for  his  supine- 
ness  in  not  concluding  the  war  by  the  extirpation  of  these 
monsters,  and  when  at  last  a  truce  was  concluded  with,  them, 
the  anger  of  the  Parliament  knew  no  bounds,  and  even  loyal 
Clmrchmen,  although  they  acknowledged  the  hard  necessity 
which  obliged  the  King  to  such  a  step,  yet  lamented  it  as  one 
of  the  severest  misfortunes  which  had  befallen  them.  The 
King  hoped  by  this  peace  not  only  to  be  able  to  recall  the 
soldiers  who  had  been  engaged  against  the  rebels  to  his  own 
assistance,  but  also  to  procure  a  detachment  of  Irish  soldiers 
for  the  same  purpose  from  the  pojDish  leaders.  But  the  popish 
demands  being  very  excessive,  Ormond  had  not  been  able  to 
advance  far  towards  a  settled  peace,  when,  in  the  previous 
spring,  the  Lord  Herbert  (afterwards  Earl  of  Glamorgan),  the 
son  of  the  Marquis  of  Worcester,  of  a  devoted  Catholic  family, 
and  of  great  influence,  announced  his  intention  of  going  to  Ire- 
land on  private  business,  and  offered  to  assist  tlie  King  with 
his  influence  among  the  Catholics.  He  had  married  a  daughter 
of  the  great  Irish  house  of  Thomond,  and  undoubtedly  possessed 
more  influence  in  that  island  among  the  Papists  than  any  other 
of  the  royal  party. 

The  King  eagerly  accepted  his  assistance,  and  Glamorgan 
afterwards  produced  a  commission,  undeniably  signed  by  the 
King,  in  which  he  gives  him  ample  powers  to  treat  with  the 
Papists,  and  to  grant  them  any  terms  whatever  which  he  should 
find  necessary,  consistent  with  the  royal  supremacy  and  the 
safety  of  the  Protestants.  In  this  extraordinary  commission  he 
creates  him  Earl  of  Glamorgan,  bestows  on  him  the  Garter  and 
George,  promises  him  the  Princess  Elizabeth  as  a  wife  for  his 
son,  gives  him  blank  patents  of  nobility  to  fill  up  at  his  pleasure, 
and  promises  him  on  the  word  of  a  King  to  endorse  all  his  actions. 
The  only  limit  which  appears  to  have  been  set  to  the  Earl  was 
an  obligation  to  inform  the  Lord  Lieutenant  of  all  his  proceed- 


CHAP.  XI.]  A  j^OMANCE.  125 

ings ;  and  the  only  doubt  respecting  this  commission  appears  to 
be  whether  it  was  filled  up  before  the  King  signed  it,  or  written 
on  a  blank  signed  by  the  King,  in  accordance  with  conclusions 
previously  agreed  upon  between  him  and  the  Earl. 

The  Earl  left  Oxford  for  Ireland,  where  the  Nuncio  from 
the  Pope  had  arrived,  and  proceeded  in  his  negotiations  with  this 
dignitary  and  the  Supreme  Council  of  the  rebel  Papists  and  Irish 
— negotiations  in  which  he  found  endless  difficidties  and  delays, 
owing  chiefly  to  a  mutual  distrust  of  all  parties  towards  each 
other  ; — a  distrust  of  the  King  not  unnatural  on  the  part  of  the 
Irish,  who  knew  that  nothing  but  the  utmost  distress  induced  the 
King  to  treat  with  them  at  all,  and  that  to  treat  with  them,  or 
at  least  to  make  any  important  concessions  to  them,  was  to  alien- 
ate the  whole  of  the  English  Protestants — both  Royalists  and 
Parliamentarians — to  an  implacable  degree.  The  Irish  demanded 
perfect  freedom  of  religion ;  the  possession  of  all  Cathedrals  and 
Churches ;  and  that  all  the  strong  places  in  Ireland,  including 
Dublin,  should  be  in  the  hands  at  any  rate  of  English  Roman 
Catholics ;  that  the  English  Papists  shoidd  be  relieved  from  all 
disabilities  ;  and  that  the  King  in  the  fii'st  Parliament,  Or  settle- 
ment of  the  nation,  should  ratify  and  secure  all  these  advantages 
to  them.  In  return  for  this  the  Pope  offered  a  large  present  of 
money,  and  the  Earl  was  promised  10,000  men  from  the  rebel 
forces — 3000  immediately  for  the  relief  of  Chester,  and  7000 
to  follow  before  the  end  of  March. 

In  order  to  realize  how  repulsive  such  a  proceeding  as  this 
would  appear  to  the  whole  English  nation,  it  is  necessary  to 
recollect  the  repeated  professions  of  attachment  to  Protestantism 
on  the  part  of  the  King,  and  of  his  determination  to  repress 
Popery ;  the  intense  hatred  of  Popery  on  the  part  of  the  Piuritau 
party,  and  of  most  of  the  Chiurch  people ;  and  the  horror  caused 
in  all  classes  by  the. barbarities  of  the  Irish  massacre — something 
similar  to  the  feehng  in  England  during  the  Sepoy  rebelUon. 
Ko  Irish  ever  came  into  England,  and  the  English  knew  them 
only  by  report  as  ferocious,  half-naked  savages,  to  which  state, 
indeed,  centiuries  of  oppression  had  reduced  them.  So  imiversal 
was  this  feeling,  that  the  King"  dared  only  proceed  in  the  most 
secret  manner ;  and  in  a  letter  to  Glamorgan  he  acknowledges 
that  the  circumstances  are  such  that  he  cannot  do  more  than 
hint  at  his  wishes,  promising  him  again,  on  the  word  of  a  King, 
to  ratify  all  his  actions,  and  to  regard  his  proceedings  with  addi- 


126  JOHN  INGLES  ANT  ;  [CHAP.  XI. 

tional  gratitude  if  they  were  conducted  without  insisting  nicely 
on  positive  written  orders,  which  it  was  impossible  to  give. 

Communications  between  the  Earl  and  the  Court  continued 
to  be  kept  up,  and  the  former  represented  the  progress  of  the 
negotiations  as  satisfactory ;  but  the  state  of  the  King's  affairs 
became  so  pressing,  especially  with  regard  to  the  relief  of  Chester, 
which  was  reduced  to  great  distress,  that  it  was  absolutely 
necessary  that  some  envoy  should  be  sent  to  Ireland  to  hasten 
the  treaty,  and  if  possible  assist  the  Earl  to  convince  the  Supreme 
Council  of  the  good  faith  of  the  King ;  and  it  was  also  as  import- 
ant that  an  equally  qualified  agent  should  go  to  Chester  to  pre- 
pare the  leaders  there  to  receive  the  Irish  contingent,  and  to 
encom-age  them  to  hold  out  longer  in  expectation  of  it 

"  There  is  no  man  so  suited  to  both  these  missions  as  your- 
Bclf,"  said  the  Jesuit.  "  You  are  a  King's  servant  and  a  Pro- 
testant, and  you  will  therefore  have  weight  with  the  rebel 
Council  in  Ireland.  Still  more,  as  you  are  a  Churchman  and  a 
favomite  with  the  Church  people — especially  since  the  death  of 
the  Ai'chbishop — you  will  be  able  to  prepare  the  mind  of  the 
Lord  Biron  and  the  commanders  at  Chester  to  receive  the  Irish 
troops  favourably ;  they  will  believe  that  you  act  by  the  King's 
direction,  and  will  not  know  anything  of  the  concessions  which 
have  been  made  in  Ireland.     You  are  ready  to  undertake  it  V 

Inglesant  hesitated  for  a  moment,  but  then  he  said  simply 
and  without  effort, — 

"  I  am  ready ;  I  will  do  my  best ;  but  there  are  some  things 
I  should  like  to  ask." 

"  Ask  what  you  will,"  said  the  Jesuit,  quickly ;  "  everything 
I  know  I  will  tell  you." 

"As  a  Chiu-chman,"  said  Inglesant,  "if  I  lend  myself  to 
this  plan  I  shall  be  considered  by  all  Churchmen  to  have 
betrayed  my  religion,  and  to  have  done  my  best  to  ruin  my 
country  as  a  Protestant  country.  Is  not  this  the  case?" 
"  Probably,"  said  the  Jesuit,  after  a  moment's  hesitation. 
"  Shall  I  have  any  authority  direct  from  the  King  for  what 
I  dor' 

"  I  have  advised  not,"  said  the  Jesuit ;  "  but  His  Majesty 
thinks  that  you  will  need  some  other  warrant,  both  in  Ireland 
and  at  Chester,  than  the  mere  fact  of  yom-  belonging  to  the 
Household.  He  therefore  intends  to  give  you  an  intei  view,  and 
also  a  written  commission  signed  by  himself." 


CHAP.  XI.]  A  ROMANCE.  127 

"And  in  case  the  whole  scheme  miscarries  and  becomes 
public?"  said  Inglesant. 

"  I  cannot  answer,"  said  the  Jesuit,  "  for  what  course  His 
Majesty  may  be  advised  to  take ;  but  in  yoiu-  case  it  will,  of 
com'se,  be  your  duty  to  preserve  the  strictest  silence  as  to  what 
has  passed  between  the  King  and  yoiu'self." 

"  Then  if  I  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  Parliament,"  Inglesant 
said,  "my  connection  with  the  King  will  be  repudiated?" 

"His  Majesty  pledges  his  word  as  a  King" — began  the 
Jesuit. 

Inglesant  made  a  slight  impatient  motion  with  his  head, 
which  the  other  saw,  and  instantly  stopped. 

He  raised  his  eyes  to  Inglesant,  and  looked  fully  in  his  face 
for  a  moment ;  then,  with  that  supreme  instinct  which  taught 
him  at  once  how  to  deal  with  men,  he  said  : — 

"If  the  necessities  of  the  State  demand  it,  all  knowledge 
of  this  affair  will  be  denied  by  the  King." 

" That  is  all  I  have  to  say,"  said  Inglesant ;  "I  am  ready 
to  go." 

The  next  day  Inglesant  saw  the  King.  The  interview  was 
very  short.  The  King  referred  him  to  Father  St.  Clare  for  all 
instructions,  telling  him  distinctly  that  aU  the  instructions  he 
would  receive  from  him  would  have  his  approval,  lu-ging  him  to 
use  all  his  efforts  to  assist  Lord  Glamorgan,  but  at  all  events 
to  lose  no  time,  after  seeing  his  Lordship,  in  getting  to  Chester, 
and,  when  there,  to  use  every  exertion  to  induce  the  Cavaliers  to 
receive  the  Irish  troops,  as  they,  no  doubt,  would  be  glad  in 
their  extremity  to  do.'  He  received  a  few  lines  written  by  the 
King  in  his  presence  and  signed,  requiring  all  to  whom  he  might 
show  them  to  give  credit  to  what  he  might  tell  them  as  if  it 
came  direct  from  the  King.  The  King  gave  him  his  hand  to 
kiss,  and  dismissed  him. 

Inglesant  lost  no  time  in  reaching  Bristol,  taking  with  him 
all  that  remained  of  his  money,  considerable  sums  of  which  he 
had  from  time  to  time  lent  to  the  King.  He  found  a  vessel 
sailing  for  Waterford,  and  was  fortunate  enough  to  reach  that 
harboiu'  without  loss  of  time.  He  did  not  stay  by  the  ship 
while  she  went  up  to  the  city,  but  landed  at  Dunmore,  and 
immediately  took  horses  to  Kilkenny.  There  he  fomid  the  Earl 
and  the  Papal  Nuncio  engaged  in  negotiations  with  each  other, 
and  with  the  Supreme  Council,  the  principal  difficulty  being  an 


128  JOHN  inglesant;  [chap.  xi. 

intense  distmst  of  the  King.  The  Nuncio,  John  Baptista 
Kinuccini,  Archbishop  of  Fermo,  was  of  a  noble  family  of 
Florence,  and  of  long  experience  at  the  Court  of  Eome.  He 
ai}peared  pleased  to  see  Inglesant,  and  came  to  visit  him 
privately  at  his  lodgings,  where  he  entered  into  a  long  discourse 
with  him,  endeavoiu-ing  to  find  out  the  real  standing  and 
authority  of  the  Earl,  and  whether  the  King  could  be  triLsted 
or  not.  Inglesant,  who  spoke  both  French  and  Itahan  as  well 
as  Latin,  was  able  to  enter  very  fully  and  freely  into  the  state 
of  affairs  with  him.  He  told  him  that  the  only  way  to  gain 
any  advantages  which  the  Catholics  might  have  in  view  was  to 
assist  the  King  promptly  and  effectively  at  once;  that  the 
King  could  only  be  enabled  to  fulfil  his  promises  by  being 
placed  in  a  strong  and  independent  position;  and  tliat  if,  by 
delays  and  half  measures,  the  help  \\'as  postponed  till  it  was  too 
late,  or  the  negotiations  became  publicly  known,  the  King 
would  be  powerless  to  fulfil  his  promises,  and  would  be  com- 
pelled to  repudiate  them  altogether.  He  submitted  to  the 
Nuncio  that,  even  supposing  the  King's  good  faith  was  doubt- 
ful, he  w^as  much  more  likely  to  be  favom-able  to  the  Catholics, 
when  restored  to  power,  than  the  Parliament  and  the  Pmitan 
faction  would  ever  be ;  he  reminded  the  Nuncio  of  the  great 
favour  and  leniency  which  had  ever  been  shown  to  the  Romanists 
during  the  King's  reign,  and  he  spoke  warmly  of  the  base  in- 
gratitude which  had  been  shown  to  the  King  by  that  party 
among  the  Catholics  who  had  intrigued  with  the  Parliament 
against  a  King,  very  many  of  whose  troubles  had  arisen  from 
his  leniency  towards  their  religion. 

The  Nuncio  was  evidently  much  impressed  with  Inglesant's 
arguments,  and  was  very  com-teous  in  his  expressions  of  regard, 
assuring  Inglesant  that  he  should  not  forget  to  mention  so 
excellent  and  intelligent  a  friend  of  the  Romish  Church  in  Rome 
itself,  and  that  he  hoped  he  might  some  time  see  him  there, 
and  receive  him  into  closer  relations  to  that  glorious  and  tender 
mother. 

Inglesant  saw  the  Earl  immediately  after  this  interview ;  he 
found  him  perplexed  and  discouraged  with  the  difticulties  of 
his  position.  He  introduced  Inglesant  to  several  of  the  Supreme 
Council,  and  many  days  were  taken  up  in  argument  and 
negotiations.  At  last  both  Inglesant  and  the  Earl  agreed  that 
the  most  important  thing  for  him  to  do  was  to  get  to  Chester 


CHAP.  XII.]  A  ROMANCE.  129 

•without  loss  of  time,  as  the  delays  and  negotiations  were  so 
great  that  there  was  imminent  danger  that  the  city  would  be 
surrendered  before  the  treaty  could  be  completed.  Inglesant 
therefore  left  Kilkenny  immediately,  and,  posting  to  Dublin 
without  loss  of  time,  embarked  for  Anglesea,  and  arrived  there 
on  the  29th  of  December.  Here  he  procured  horses,  and,  cross- 
ing the  island,  he  passed  over  into  Flintshire  and  proceeded 
towards  Chester.  It  was  exceedingly  unfortunate  that  he  had 
not  arrived  a  few  days  before,  as  the  Parliamentary  army,  hav- 
ing lately  received  a  reinforcement  of  Colonel  Booth  and  the 
Lancashire  forces  who  had  just  reduced  Latham  House,  had 
now  entirely  siu:rounded  the  city,  guarding  with  sufficient  force 
every  gate  and  avenue,  causing  a  gi-eat  scarcity  of  provisions, 
and  rendering  it  almost  impossible  for  any  one  to  gain  admission 
to  the  garrison. 


CHAPTER  XIL 

LoKD  BiRON  and  some  of  the  Commissioners  who  were  associated 
with  him  in  the  defence  of  the  city  were  at  supper  in  a  long, 
low  room  in  the  Castle  on  the  evening  of  the  12th  of  January. 
Lord  Biron  and  more  than  one  of  the  noblemen  and  gentlemen 
then  in  Chester  had  their  ladies  with  them,  but  they  lived 
apart,  mostly  at  Sir  Francis  Gammul's  house  in  the  Lower 
Bridge  Street,  opposite  to  St.  Olave's  Church,  and  were  pro- 
vided for  rather  better  than  the  rest ;  but  the  commanders  par- 
took of  exactly  the  same  food  as  the  rest  of  the  besieged,  and 
their  supper  that  night  consisted  of  nothing  but  boiled  wheat, 
with  water  to  diink.  The  conversation  was  very  flat,  for  the 
condition  of  the  besieged  was  becoming  utterly  hopeless ;  and 
although  they  had  rejected  several  offers  of  capitulation,  they 
foresaw  that  it  could  not  be  long  before  they  should  be  obliged 
to  submit.  The  town  had  been  singularly  jfree  from  discontent 
and  mutiny,  and  Lord  Biron's  high  position  and  renown  made 
him  particularly  fitted  for  the  post  he  filled ;  but  he  felt  that 
the  task  before  him  was  well-nigh  hopeless.  He  sat  buried  in 
thought,  few  of  the  other  gentlemen  present  spoke,  and  they 
were  on  the  point  of  separating.  Lord  Biron  to  make  the  roimd 
of  the  walls,  when  a  servant  came  up  from  the  com't  below, 
saying  that  there  was  a  man  below  in  the  dress  of  a  miner 

K 


130  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [chap.  xii. 

who  said  he  was  Mr.  Inglesant,  the  King's  gentleman,  and 
wished  to  see  his  lordship. 

"  Who  did  you  say  V  exclaimed  Lord  Biron,  and  the  others 
crowded  round  in  excitement,  "Inglesant,  the  King's  Esquire?" 

"John  Inglesant." 

"  The  Esquire  of  the  body  1" 

"  No  doubt  from  Oxford  and  the  King. ' 

"  How  could  he  have  have  got  in  V 

"  In  the  dress  of  a  miner,  he  says." 

"Perhaps  the  King  is  near  at  hand?" 

"  At  any  rate  he  has  not  forgotten  us.''  , 

"He  has  used  his  Jesuit's  teaching  to  some  purpose." 

These  and  many  other  exclamations  were  uttered  while 
Lord  Biron  told  the  servant  to  send  Inglesant  up  at  once.  He 
entered  the  room  in  his  miner's  dress,  his  hands  and  face  stained 
with  dust,  his  hair  matted  and  hanging  over  his  eyes.  He 
carried  a  large  kind  of  bag,  such  as  the  miners  used,  and  his 
first  action  was  to  place  it  on  the  table,  and  to  remove  from  it 
five  or  six  bottles  of  claret,  a  large  ham,  and  a  goose. 

"  I  knew  you  were  somewhat  short  here,"  he  said,  "  and  I 
ran  the  risk  of  bringing  these  things,  though  I  do  not  know,  if 
I  had  been  caught,  that  it  would  have  told  much  against  me, 
for  we  miners  hve  well,  I  can  tell  your  lordship." 

"  But  how  on  earth  did  you  get  in  1 "  said  Lord  Biron, 
"and  where  have  you  come  from?" 

"  I  thought  I  never  should  have  got  in,"  he  replied.  "  The 
leaguer  is  well  kept,  and  there  is  scarcely  a  weak  point.  But  I 
fear,"  he  added  sadly,  "  from  the  state  I  find  you  in,  it  really 
mattered  little  whether  I  got  in  or  not." 

"  Oh,  never  say  that,"  said  Lord  Biron  cheerily ;  "  the  sight 
of  you  is  a  corps  of  rehef  in  itself.  Come  in  here  and  let  me 
hear  what  you  have  to  say.  I  will  not  keep  the  news  a  moment 
fram  you,  gentlemen,"  he  added  courteously  to  the  rest. 

"If  you  will  pardon  me,  my  lord,"  said  Inglesant,  "and 

allow  me  a  moment  to  wash  this  dirt  off,  and  if  some  one  will  lend 

ffae  a  suit  of  clothes,  it  woidd  be  a  coui'tesy.     I  had  to  leave 

"my  own  in  Flintshire,  and  these  are  none  of  the  i^leasantest. 

.  My  news  will  keep  a  few  minutes,  and  your  lordship  will  be 

f  all  the  better  for  a  glass  or  two -of  this  claret,  which  is  not  the 

worst  you  ever  drank." 

Lord  Biron  took  him  into  another  room,  and  left  him  to 


CHAP.  XII.]  A  ROMANCE.  .  131 

change  his  dress,  lending  him  one  of  his  own  suits  of  clothes. 
Inglesant  really  wished  to  gain  time,  and  also  to  say  what  he 
had  to  say  with  every  advantage  of  appearance  and  manner,  for 
he  felt  that  his  mission  was  a  difficult  one — how  difficrdt  he  felt 
he  did  not  know. 

When  he  came  back  he  found  the  gentlemen  had  opened 
one  of  the  bottles,  and  were  drinking  the  wine  very  frugally, 
but  with  infinite  relish.  They  were  warm  in  their  thanks  to 
Inglesant,  and  in  congratulations  on  his  improved  appearance. 
Lord  Biron  took  him  on  one  side  at  once. 

Inglesant  had  a  letter  for  him  from  the  Duke  of  Ormond, 
which  the  Duke  had  given^him  unsealed,  telling  him  to  read  it. 
John  Inglesant  had  -done  so  several  times  during  his  journey, 
and  did  not  altogether  like  its  contents.  The  Duke  alluded  by 
name  to  Lord  Glamorgan,  and  mentioned  the  number  (10,000) 
of  the  troops  intended  to  be  sent  to  England.  Neither  fact 
would  Inglesant  have  wished  to  communicate  himself,  at  any 
rate  at  once,  and  he  had  resolved  not  to  deliver  the  letter  imtil 
he  saw  how  Lord  Biron  took  the  rather  vague  information  he 
intended  to  give  him.  But  there  is  always  this  difficulty  with 
negotiations  of  this  kind,  that  while  the  first  requisite  is  entu-e 
frankness,  the  least  caution,  even  at  the  beginning,  may  convey 
a  sense  of  suspicion  which  nothing  afterwards  can  remove. 
Inglesant  felt,  therefore,  that  he  should  have  to  watch  Lord 
Biron  most  closely,  and  decide  instantly,  and  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment,  when  to  trust  him  and  to  what  extent. 

He  began, .  after  Lord  Biron  had  expressed  his  cordial 
admiration  at  his  exploit  and  his  sense  of  obligation,  by  telling 
him  he  came  direct  from  Lord  Ormond,  in  Dublin,  and  that  his 
object  in  getting  into  Chester  was  to  let  them  know  that  they 
might  expect  relief  from  Ireland,  at  most  within  a  few  days, 
and  to  urge  them  to  hold  out  to  the  last  moment  and  the  last 
bag  of  wheat. 

Without  appearing  to  do  so,  he  watched  Lord  Biron 
narrowly  as  he  spoke,  and  saw  that  he  expected  to  hear  a 
great  deal  more  than  this  vague  account. 

He  went  on  teUing  him  of  his  interview  with  Ormond,  of 
the  King's  great  anxiety  for  the  relief  of  Chester,  and  the 
difficulties  the  Lord  Lieutenant  met  with  in  treating  with  the 
Irish;  but  he  saw  that  Lord  Biron  was  manifestly  getting 
impatient.     At  last  the  latter  said, — 


132  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [chap.  xil. 

"But  you  have  not  told  me,  Mr.  Inglesant,  where  this 
relief  is  to  come  from.  Ormond  has  no  troops  to  spare — he 
has  told  us  so  often  ;  indeed,  all  the  troops  that  could  be  spared 
passed  through  Chester  years  ago  when  the  truce  was  first  pro- 
claimed. He  must  keep  all  his  to  keep  those  murderous 
villains,  the  Irish  PajDists,  in  check.  They  will  respect  no 
truce.  We  hear  something  of  Lord  Glamorgan ;  have  you  seen 
him  in  Ireland  1     Have  you  no  letter  from  Ormond  to  me  V 

Inglesant  saw  that  he  must  trust  him  at  once  to  a  very 
great  extent. 

"  I  have  a  letter  from  the  Duke  to  you,"  he  said ;  "  hut  I 
wish  first  to  show  you  this  warrant  the  King  gave  me  at  Oxford, 
that  you  may  see  I  do  not  speak  without  his  authority.  When 
he  gave  me  that,  he  told  me  all  the  negotiations  which  the 
Duke  was  engaged  in,  at  his  desire,  with  the  Irish  Papists; 
and  all  that  I  tell  you  has  been  done  with  his  sanction.  As  to 
Lord  Glamorgan,  I  saw  him  at  Kilkenny ;  he  is  striving  all  he 
can  to  second  the  Lord  Lieutenant's  efi"orts  with  the  Irish  and  the 
Papal  JSTuncio,  and  he  has  the  fullest  warrant  from  the  King." 

Lord  Biron  read  the  warrant  from  the  King  carefully  more 
than  once;  tlieu  returned  it,  and  took  Lord  Ormond's  letter, 
which  he  also  read  once  or  twice. 

Inglesant  walked  to  the  window  and  looked  out. 

*'  The  letter  is  not  sealed,  Mr.  Inglesant,"  Lord  Biron  said. 

"  No,"  said  Inglesant,  "  the  Duke  insisted  on  my  bringing 
it  open,  and  on  my  reading  it.  I  requested  him  to  seal  it,  but 
he  refused." 

"And  you  have  read  it?" 

"  Certainly." 

"  I  see  he  speaks  of  a  very  large  contingent — 10,000  men, 
and  that  Glamorgan  is  to  get  them  entirely  from  the  Irish 
Papists;  Ten  thousand  Irish  Papists  and  murderers  in  England, 
Mr.  Inglesant,  is  not  what  I  should  like  to  see,  and  I  do  not 
like  tlie  negotiation  being  intrusted  so  much  to  Glamorgan,  a 
determined  Papist.  We  know  not  what  concessions  he  may 
make  unknown  to  the  King.  I  beg  your  pardon  for  my  plain 
speaking  ;  they  say  you  are  half  a  Papist  yourself." 

"  You  will  only  have  3000  men  sent  here,"  said  Inglesant 
"  and  from  what  I  saw  in  Ireland  I  fear  it  may  be  some  time 
before  the  rest  follow.  Besides,  surely,  my  lord,  nothing  can 
be  worse  than  your  present  state  here." 


CHAP.  XII.]  A  ROMANCE.  133 

^*  It  is  sad  enougli,  certainly,  but  there  may  be  things  much 
worse.  I  tell  you,  sir,  1  would  rather  die  of  hunger  on  these 
walls  than  see  my  country  given  over  to  murderous  Irish  rebels 
and  savage  Kerns.  And  bad  as  the  King's  aflairs  are  at  present, 
I  am  convinced  that  His  Majesty  would  endure  all  gladly,  rather 
than  make  any  concessions  to  such  as  these,- — much  less  expose 
England  to  their  ravages." 

"The  troops  who  will  be  sent  will  be  under  the  strictest 
orders,  and  commanded  by  gentlemen  of  honour  and  rank,"  said 
Inglesant ;  "  and  I  assure  your  lordship,  upon  my  sacred  word 
of  honour  as  a  Christian,  that  nothing  will  be  attempted  but 
what  has  His  Majesty's  cordial  consent." 

Lord  Biron  was  unsatisfied,  but  Inglesant  considered  he 
had  achieved  a  success  ;  his  lordship  had  plainly  not  the  least 
suspicious  feeling  towards  him,  all  his  dissatisfaction  arising 
from  his  dislike  to  the  means  proposed  for  his  relief.  He 
would,  moreover,  hold  out  as  long  as  possible,  and  this  all  the 
more  as  he  saw  help  approaching,  from  whatever  source  it  came. 

They  went  back  to  the  other  officers,  and  communicated  the 
news  to  them,  rather  to  their  disappointment ;  for  Inglesant 
having  spoken  some  words  of  encouragement  to  the  soldiers  of 
the  guard  below,  the  report  had  run  through  Chester  that  the 
King  was  at  hand  with  3000  horse.  The  effect,  however,  which 
Inglesant's  news  produced  in  Chester  was  altogether  exhilarating. 
Officers,  soldiers,  and  inhabitants  set  to  work  with  redoubled 
vigour,  and  Inglesant  became  a  hero  wherever  he  went,  and 
was  introduced  to  Lady  Biron  and  the  ladies,  who  received  him 
with  gratitude,  as  though  he  had  already  raised  the  siege.  He 
was  himself,  however,  very  far  from  being  at  ease,  as  day  after 
day  passed  and  no  signs  of  help  appeared.  Lord  Biron,  though 
showing  the  greatest  signs  of  confidence  openly,  had  evidently 
become  more  and  more  hopeless,  and  continually  sought  oppor- 
tunities of  speaking  to  Inglesant  privately  :  and  Inglesant  found 
it  impossible  to  avoid  letting  him  see  more  and  more  into  the 
real  facts  of  the  case ;  so  that  the  Duke  and  his  share  in  the 
negotiatioijs  fell,  day  by  day,  deeper  into  the  shade,  and  Lord 
Glamorgan  and  his  share  appeared  every  day  in  greater  promi- 
nence. Lord  Biron  expressed  himself  increasingly  dissatisfied, 
and  suspicious  that  such  negotiations  did  not  originate  with  the 
King;  but  as  no  help  or  troops  of  any  kind  appeared,  these 
imaginary  dangers  were  not  of  much  import.      Sir  Willian) 


134  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [chap.  XIL 

Brereton,  the  Parliamentary  commander,  was  continually  send* 
ino;  letters  summoning  them  to  surrender.  Nine  of  these  they 
refused,  but  when  there  ajjpeared  no  longer  any  hopes  of  succour, 
Lord  Biron  answered  the  tenth.  To  this  Sir  William  answered, 
upbraiding  Lord  Biron  with  having  delayed  so  long,  "every  day 
producing  loss  of  blood  and  expense  of  treasure,"  but  offering 
to  appoint  commissioners  to  treat  on  the  terms  of  surrender, 
This  letter  was  received  on  the  26th  of  January,  and,  the  samts 
day  Lord  Biron  replied.  Sir  William's  answer  came  'the  next 
day,  and  the  same  morning,  that  is  on  the  27th  of  January,  an 
event  occurred  which  decided  Lord  Biron  to  surrender,  and  at 
the  same  time  sealed  Inglcsant's  fate. 

Early  in  the  forenoon  a  rumour  spread  through  Chestei,  the 
source  of  which  could  not  be  discovered,  but  which  no  doubt 
arose  from  some  soldiers'  gossip  between  the  outposts.  It  was 
said  that  some  great  Earl  (Lord  Glamorgan's  name  was  imme- 
diately introduced  into  the  report,  but  whether  it  was  in  the 
original  rumour  is  doubtful)  had  been  arrested  in  Ireland,  for 
having  concluded  in  the  King's  name,  but  without  his  sanction, 
a  treaty  with  the  Irish  rebels  and  Papists,  by  which  the  latter 
were  relieved  from  all  disabilities  and  restored  to  the  command 
of  the  island,  in  return  for  which  they  agreed  to  march  a  large 
army  into  England,  to  destroy  the  Parliament  and  the  Protestant 
party,  and  restore  the  King  and  Popery.  This  report,  garnished 
with  great  variety  of  additional  horrors,  spread  rapidly  through 
the  city,  and  about  ten  o'clock  reached  Lord  Biron's  ears. 
Chiming  in  as  it  did  with  his  worst  suspicions,  it  excited  and 
alarmed  him  not  a  little.  His  first  thought  was  of  Inglesant, 
and  he  sent  at  once  to  his  lodgings  to  know  if  he  was  within. 
Inglesant  had  spent  the  whole  of  the  night  at  one  of  the  advanced 
bastions,  where,  having  some  reason  to  believe  that  the  enemy 
were  working  a  mine,  the  garrison  made  a  sortie,  and,  wearied 
out,  had  come  home  to  his  room  in  the  Bridge  Street  to  rest. 
His  wounds,  and  especially  the  one  in  his  head,  which  had  been 
supposed  to  be  cured,  began  to  affect  him  again,  probably 
through  exhaustion,  excitement,  and  want  of  food,  and  for 
several  days  he  had  felt  a  giddiness  and  confusion  of  brain 
which  at  times  was  so  great  that  he  scarcely  knew  what  he 
did.  He  had  scarcely  fallen  asleep  on  the  great  bed  in  the 
small  room,  crowded  with  the  valuables  of  the  good  people  of 
the  house  |a  which  he  lodged,  when  the  messenger  from  the 


CHAP.  XII.]        '  A  ROT^IANCE.  135 

governor  entered  the  room  and  aroused  him.  Sending  the  man 
back  before  liim  he  waited  a  few  minutes  to  collect  his  faculties 
and  arrange  his  dress,  and  then  followed  him  to  the  Castle. 
He  found  Loid  Biron  in  the  state  dining-room,  a  noble  room, 
handsomely  furnished,  with  large  windows  at  the  end  overlook- 
ing the  Dee  estuary,  and  a  great  carved  fireplace,  before  which 
Lord  Biron  was  standing  impatiently  awaiting  him. 

"Mr.  Inglesant,"  he  said,  as  he  entered  the  room,  "you 
showed  me  once  a  commission  from  His  Majesty ;  will  you  let 
me  see  it  again  f 

Inglesant,  who  had  heard  nothing  of  the  rumoiu:  that  had 
caused  such  dismay,  and  who  suspected  nothing,  immediately 
produced  the  paper  and  handed  it  to  Lord  Biron,  who  took  out 
another  from  his  pocket,  and  compared  the  two  carefidly  to- 
gether, going  to  the  window  to  do  so. 

Then,  coming  back  to  Inglesant,  and  holding  the  two  papers 
fast  in  his  hand,  he  said  : — 

"  Mr.  Inglesant,  I  have  heard,  this  morning,  what  I  have 
reason  to  believe  is  true,  that  the  Lord  Glamorgan  has  been 
arrested  in  Dublin  by  the  King's  Council  for  granting  the 
Papists  terms  in  the  King's  name,  and  conspiring  to  bring  over 
a  Papist  army  into  England.  Have  you  any  knowledge  of  such 
matters  as  these  V 

Inglesant's  astonishment  and  dismay  were  so  unfeigned  that 
Lord  Bu'on  saw  at  once  that  such  news  was  most  unexpected 
by  him.  He  had  indeed,  among  all  the  dangers  he  was  on  his 
guard  against,  never  calculated  upon  such  as  this.  Distasteful 
as  he  supposed  the  negotiations  with  the  Papists  would  be  to 
niunbers  of  the  Church  party,  the  idea  never  entered  his  mind 
that  any  loyal  authorities  would  take  upon  them,  without  com- 
municating with  the  King,  the  responsibility  of  arresting  the 
negotiations  or  making  them  public,  and  this  with  a  high  hand, 
presupposing  that  they  were  without  the  King's  sanction.  But, 
supposing  this  extraordinary  news  to  be  true,  he  saw  at  once  an 
end  to  his  efforts, — he  saw  himself  at  once  helpless  and  deserted, 
nothing  before  him  but  long  imprisonment  and  perhaps  death. 

He  stood  for  some  mcments  looking  at  Lord  Biron,  the  pic- 
ture of  astonishment  and  dismay.     At  last,  he  said, — 

"I  cannot  think,  my  lord,  that  such  news  can  be  true. 
"What  possible  motive  could  the  Council  have  to  take  such  a 
s'ep'?     I  give  you  my  word  of  honour  as  a  Christian,  that  Lord 


136  JOHN  INGLES  ANT;  [CHAP.  XII, 

Glamorgan  has  done  nothing  but  what  he  had  authority  for 
from  the  King." 

"  You  are  much  in  his  confidence  evidently,  sir,"  said  Lord 
Biron  severely ;  "  but  I  am  inclined  to  believe  my  information 
nevertheless." 

"  But  he  had  commission  and  warrants  signed  by  the  King 
himself;  and  private  letters  from  him,  which  would  have 
removed  all  suspicion,"  said  Inglesant. 

"  Yes,  sir,  no  doubt  he  had  commissions,  professedly  from 
the  King,  as  you  have,"  said  Lord  Biron  still  more  severely. 
"Your  commission  names  Lord  Glamorgan,  and  you  are  evi- 
dently of  one  council  with  him.  Will  you  pledge  me  your 
honour  that  this  paper  was  written  by  the  King  1 " 

And  he  held  out  Inglesant's  commission. 

Johnny  hesitated :  the  circumstances  of  the  case  were  be- 
ginning to  arrange  themselves  before  him,  racked  and  weary  as 
his  brain  was.  If  this  news  were  true,  if  the  Lord  Lieutenant 
and  the  Council  had  really  disclaimed,  in  the  King's  name,  the 
negotiations,  and  boldly  before  the  world  proclaimed  them 
unauthorized,  and  the  warrants  a  forgery,  the  game  was  evi- 
dently played  out,  and  his  course  clear  before  him,  dark  and 
gloomy  enough.  Yet  he  thought  he  would  make  one  effort  to 
recover  the  paper,  a  matter,  whatever  might  turn  out,  of  the 
first  importance  to  the  King. 

"  If  I  swear  to  you.  Lord  Biron,  that  the  King  wrote  it, 
will  you  give  it  me  back  *? " 

"  I  am  sorry,  sir,  that  I  cannot,"  said  Lord  Biron.  "  I  am 
grieved  at  my  heart  to  do  anything  which  would  seem  to  doubt 
in  the  least  the  word  of  a  gentleman  such  as  I  have  always 
believed  you  to  be ;  but  in  the  post  I  hold,  and  in  the  crisis  of 
an  affair  so  terribly  important  as  this,  I  must  act  as  my  poor 
judgment  leads  me.  I  cannot  give  this  paper  up  to  any  one 
until  I  learn  more  of  this  distressing  business." 

"  If  I  swear  to  you,"  said  Inglesant,  beaten  at  every  point, 
but  fighting  to  the  last,  "  that  it  is  the  King's  writing,  wi'I 
you  give  me  your  word  of  honoiu:  that  you  will  burn  it  ira- 
mediately  ?" 

"  No,  sir,"  said  the  other  loftily ;  "what  the  King  has  been 
pleased  to  write,  it  can  be  the  duty  of  no  man  to  conceal." 

"  Then  it  is  not  the  King's,"  said  Inglesant. 

Lord  Biron  stared  at  him  for  a  moment,  then  folded  up  the 


CHAP.  XII.  J  A  ROMANCE.  137 

papers  carefully,  and  replaced  them  in  his  pocket-case.  Then 
he  went  to  the  door  of  the  dining-room  at  the  top  of  the  stairs 
and  called  down. 

"  Without !  send  up  a  guard.'' 

Inglesant  unhooked  his  sword  from  the  scarf,  and  handed  it 
to  Lord  Biron  without  a  word.     Then  he  said, — 

"  It  can  be  of  no  advantage  to  me  now,  may  probably  tell 
against  me,  when  I  entreat  your  lordship  to  beheve  me  when  I 
tell  you,  as  I  hope  for  salvation  before  the  throne  of  God,  that 
if  you  bm-n  that  paper  now  you  will  be  glad  of  it  every  day 
you  live." 

"  I  certainly  shall  not  burn  it,  sir,"  said  the  other,  speaking 
now  with  a  cold  disdain.  And  he  turned  his  back  upon  Ingle- 
sant, and  stood  looking  at  the  fire. 

Johnny  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  The  bright 
winter's  sun  was  shining  on  the  walls  and  roofs  of  the  town, 
on  the  dancing  waves  of  the  estuary,  and  on  the  green  oak  banks 
of  Flintshire  beyond.  He  remembered  the  view  long  afterwards, 
as  we  remember  that  on  which  the  eye  rests  almost  unconsciously 
in  any  supreme  moment  of  our  Uves. 

Presently  the  guard  came  up. 

"  This  gentleman  is  under  arrest,"  said  Lord  Biron  to  the 
sergeant ;  "  you  will  secure  him  in  one  of  the  strong  rooms  of 
the  tower,  and  see  that  he  has  fire  and  his  full  share  of  pro- 
visions until  the  garrison  is  relieved;  but  no  one  must  be 
admitted  to  see  him,  and  you  are  responsible  for  his  person  to 
me.  You  can  send  word  to  your  servant  to  bring  you  anything 
you  may  want  from  yom-  lodgings,  Mr.  Inglesant,"  he  said, 
"  but  he  must  not  come  to  you,  and  all  the  things  must  pass 
through  my  hands." 

Inglesant  bowed..  "1  have  to  thank  you  for  the  courtesy, 
Lord  Biron,"  he  said;  "I  have  nothing  to  complain  of  in  your 
treatment  of  me." 

The  other  turned  away,  half  impatiently,  and  Inglesant 
followed  the  sergeant  to  his  room,  the  guard  following  one  by 
one,  through  the  passages  and  up  the  narrow  staircase  of  the 
tower. 

It  was  a  pleasant  room  enough,  fitted  with  glass  windows 
strongly  barred.  The  sergeant  caused  a  fire  to  be  lighted,  and 
left  Inglesant  to  himself. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  been  imprisoned,  and  as 


138  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [chap  xil 

the  door  locked  upon  him  that  terrible  feeling  crept  over  him 
which  the  first  sense  of  incarceration  always  brings, — a  name- 
less dread  and  a  frantic  desire  of  escape,  of  again  mixing  with 
fellow-men.  But  to  Inglesant  this  sad  feeling  was  increased 
immensely  by  the  circmnstances  that  surrounded  him,  and  the 
pecuUar  nature  of  his  position.  The  very  nature  of  his  position 
debarred  him  fi:om  all  hope,  cut  him  off  from  all  help  alike  from 
friend  and  foe.  Those  who  in  any  other  case  would  be  most 
forward  to  help  him  were  now  his  jailers,  nay,  he  was  turned 
by  this  strange  reverse  into  his  own  jailer  aijd  enemy ;  debarred 
from  attempting  anything  to  help  himself,  he  must  actually 
employ  all  his  energies  in  riveting  the  chains  more  tightly  on 
his  limbs,  in  preparing  the  gallows  himself.  Exposed  to  the 
contempt  and  hatred  of  all  his  friends,  of  those  dearer  to  him 
than  friends,  he  could  make  no  effort  to  clear  himself,  nay, 
every  word  he  spoke  must  be  nicely  calculated  to  increase  their 
aversion  and  contempt.  He  was  worn  and  ill  and  half-starved, 
and  his  brain  was  full  of  confusion  and  strange  noises,  yet  the 
idea  of  faltering  in  his  course  never  so  much  as  presented  itself 
to  him.     The  Jesuit's  work  was  fully  done. 

The  next  day  the  Commissioners  for  the  surrender  of  the  city 
met,  and  the  day  after  Sir  William  Brereton's  Commissioners 
made  a  formal  announcement  of  the  news  that  had  been  received 
from  Ireland.  Lord  Glamorgan,  they  said,  had  arrived  in  Dubhn 
from  Kilkenny.  The  26th  of  December  was  fixed  for  him  to 
appear  before  the  Council,  but  in  the  meantime  letters  were 
received  by  several  persons  in  Dublin  giving  an  account  of  some 
papers  found  on  the  person  of  the  titulary  Archbishop  of  Tuam, 
who  was  slain  in  an  encoimter  at  Sligo  in  October.  The  papers 
contained  the  details  of  the  treaty  come  to  between  Lord  Gla^ 
morgan  and  the  Papists,  which  details  threw  the  Council  into 
such  dismay  that  they  concluded  that  if  such  things  were  once 
published,  and  they  coidd  be  believed  to  be  done  by  His 
Majesty's  authority,  they  could  have  no  less  fatal  an  effect 
than  to  make  all  men  conclude  all  the  former  scandals  cast 
upon  His  Majesty  of  the  inciting  the  Irish  Rebellion  true; 
that  the  King  was  a  Papist,  and  designed  to  introduce  Popery 
even  by  ways  the  most  unkingly  and  perfidious;  and  conse- 
quently, that  there  would  be  a  general  revolt  of  all  good  Pro- 
testants from  him.  Now,  the  Council,  considering  all  this,  and 
»lso  hearing  that  the  affair  was  already  public  through  Dublin, 


SHAP.  XII.]  A  ROaiANCE.  139 

and  beginning  to  work  such  dangerous  effects  that  they  did  not 
consider  themselves  safe,  they  conchided  that  the  only  course 
open  to  them  was  to  arrest  Lord  Glamorgan  in  the  Council, 
which  was  accordingly  done  on  the  26th  of  December. 

The  Commissioners  also  informed  Lord  Biron  that  they 
were  told  that  there  were  many  Irish  in  Chester,  born  of  Irish 
parents,  who  had  formerly  served  in  the  rebel  armies  in  Ireland, 
and  that  also  there  was  even  then  in  Chester  an  emissary  from 
Lord  Glamorgan.  They  therefore  demanded  that  these  Irish 
shoidd  be  exempted  from  the  general  terms  of  surrender,  and 
made  over  to  them  as  prisoners  of  War,  and  that  the  emissary 
from  Lord  Glamorgan  should  also  be  given  up  to  them  as  a 
traitor,  seeing  that  he  was  condemned  by  the  royal  party  as 
well  as  by  themselves. 

To  this  it  was  answered  by  Lord  Biron's  Commissioners 
that  the  Irish — such  at  least  as  were  born  of  Irish  parents 
and  had  served  with  the  rebels — shoidd  be  delivered  as  they 
requested,  and  that  as  to  Mr.  Inglesant,  the  emissary  alluded 
to,  he  was  already  under  arrest  on  the  charge  of  treason,  and 
should  remain  so  until  more  of  this  affair  could  be  known, 
when,  if  the  truth  appeared  to  be  as  was  supposed,  he  should 
be  given  up  also. 

With  this  the  Parliamentary  Commissioners  professed  them- 
selves satisfied,  and  the  treaty  was  proceeded  with,  and  on  the 
3d  of  February  Chester  was  formally  sm-rendered.  On  the 
same  day  Sir  William  Brereton  informed  Lord  Biron  that  the 
King,  in  a  message  to  the  Parliament,  dated  from  Oxford, 
January  29,  utterly  repudiated  all  knowledge  of  the  Earl  of 
Glamorgan's  proceedings,  and  denied  that  he  had  given  him 
any  authority  whatever  to  treat  with  the  Irish  Papists.  Sir 
William  added,  he  supposed  Lord  Biron  would  no  longer  have 
any  scruple  to  surrender  the  person  of  Lord  Glamorgan's  emis- 
sary, as  by  so  doing  could  he  alone  convince  men  of  the  sincerity 
of  his  belief  in  the  King's  freedom  from  complicity  in  his  de- 
signs. Lord  Biron  answered  that  he  had  nothing  to  object  to 
in  this,  and  would  give  Mr.  Inglesant  up,  and  indeed  it  was  not 
in  his  power  to  do  anything  else.  On  the  3d  day  of  February 
the  Parhamentary  forces  were,  marched  into  the  town,  and  Lord 
Biron  with  his  lady,  and  the  rest  of  the  noblemen  and  gentlemen 
and  their  ladies,  prepared  to  leave.  According  to  the  articles  of 
the  treaty,  carriages  were  prDvided  for  them  and  their  goods, 


140  JOHN  inglesant;  [chap  xil 

and  a  party  of  horse  appointed  to  convey  thsm  to  Conway. 
The  ladies  and  gentlemen  were  assembled  at  Sir  Francis  Gam^ 
mul's  in  the  Lower  Bridge  Street.  The  street  was  blocked  with 
carriages  and  horses,  and  carts  full  of  goods ;  companies  of  foot 
were  forcing  their  way  through ;  the  overhanging  rows  and 
houses  were  full  of  people,  the  Chiu-ch  bells  were  ringing,  the 
Parliamentary  officers  passing  to  and  fro.  There  was  a  certain 
amount  of  relief  and  gaiety  in  all  hearts ;  the  Royalists  were 
relieved  from  the  hardships  of  the  siege,  and  were  expecting  to 
go  to  their  homes ;  the  Parliamentarians,  of  course,  were 
jubilant.  The  principal  inhabitants  of  Chester  were  the  worst 
off,  but  even  they  looked  forward  to  a  time  of  quiet,  and  to  the 
possibility  of  at  last  retrieving  their  losses  and  their  position 
in  the  town.  Amid  all  this  confusion  and  bustle,  a  sergeant's 
'guard  entered  the  room  where  Inglesant  was  confined,  and  de- 
sired him  to  accompany  them  to  the  commander,  that  the  trans- 
fer of  his  person  might  be  arranged.  He  followed  them  out  of 
the  Castle,  by  St.  Mary's  Church,  and  up  the  short  street  into 
the  Bridge  Street,  at  the  corner  of  which  Sir  Francis  Gammul's 
house  stood.  Forcing  his  way  through  the  crowd  that  gaped 
and  pressed  upon  them,  the  sergeant  conducted  Inglesant  into 
the  house,  and  up  into  one  of  the  principal  rooms,  where  the 
commanders  and  the  ladies  and  many  others  were  assembled. 
A  crowd  of  curious  spectators  pressed  after  them  to  the  door  as 
soon  as  it  was  known  whom  the  sergeant  had  brought ;  a  dead 
silence  fell  upon  the  whole  company,  and  the  two  commanders, 
who  were  seated  at  a  table,  on  which  were  the  articles  of  sur- 
render, rose  and  gazed  at  Inglesant.  A  confused  murmur,  the 
nature  of  which  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  describe,  ran 
through  the  room,  and  the  ladies  pressed  together,  with  mingled 
timidity  and  curiosity,  to  look  on.  Inglesant  was  thin  and  pale, 
his  clothes  shabby  and  uncared  for,  his  hair  and  moustache  un- 
dressed, his  whole  demeanour  cowed  and  dispirited — very  diflfer- 
ent  in  appearance  from  the  fine  gentleman  who  had  played 
Philaster  before  the  Coiurt.  Doubtless,|many  among  the  Royal- 
ists pitied  him ;  but  at  present  no  doubts  were  felt,  or  at  any 
rate  had  time  to  circulate,  of  the  King's  sincerity,  and  the  dis- 
like to  the  Jesuits,  even  by  the  High  Church  Loyalists,  closed 
their  hearts  against  him.  The  Lord  Biron  asked  him  whether 
he  had  anything  to  say  before  he  was  delivered  over  to  Sif 
William,  to  which  he  replied, — 


CHAP.  XII.]  A  ROMANCE.  141 

"No." 

He  made  no  eflFort  to  speak  to  any  one,  or  to  salute  Lady 
Biron  or  any  of  his  acquaintances,  but  stood  patiently,  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  ground. 

Sir  William  asked  whether  he  adhered  to  his  statement  that 
the  commission  he  had  exhibited  was  a  forgery  1 

At  which  he  looked  up  steadily,  and  said, — 

"  Yes  ;  it  was  not  written  by  the  King." 

As  he  made  the  avowal  a  murmur  of  indignation  passed 
through  the  room,  and  Sir  William  ordered  him  to  be  removed, 
telling  him  he  should  be  examined  to-morrow,  the  account  of 
his  answers  sent  up  to  London,  and  the  will  of  the  Parliament 
commmiicated  to  him  as  soon  as  possible.  Inglesant  bowed  in 
reply  and  turned  to  leave  the  room,  making  no  effort  to  salute 
or  take  leave  of  any  one  ;  but  Lord  Biron  stopped  him  with  a 
gestiu-e,  and  said,  probably  actuated  by  some  feeling  which  he 
could  not  have  explained, — 

"I  wish  you  good-day,  Mr.  Inglesant,  I  may  never  see 
you  again." 

Inglesant  looked  up,  a  sHght  flush  passing  over  his  features, 
and  their  eyes  met. 

"  I  wish  you  good-day,  my  lord,"  he  said ;  "  you  have  acted 
as  a  faithful  servant  of  the  King." 

Lord  Biron  made  no  further  effort  to  detain  him,  and  he 
left  the  room. 

The  next  day  he  was  brought  up  before  Sir  William  Brere- 
ton,  and  examined  at  great  length.  He  stated  that  the  plot  had 
originated  with  the  Roman  Catholics,  especially  the  Jesuits,  whose 
envoy  Lord  Glamorgan  was ;  that  all  the  warrants  and  papers 
were  forged  by  them,  and  that  he  had  received  his  instructions 
°  and  the  King's  commission  from  Father  St.  Clare  himself.  He 
stated  that  if  the  design  failed,  the  King  was  to  know  nothing 
of  it,  and  if  it  succeeded  it  was  supposed  that  he  would  pardon 
the  offenders  on  consideration  of  the  benefits  he  would  receive. 
A  vast  mass  of  evidence  was  taken  by  Sir  William  from  Irish 
Boldiers,  inhabitants  of  Chester,  and  people  of  every  description, 
relative  to  what  had  taken  place  in  the  city,  and  all  was  sent  to 
London  to  the  Parliament.  In  the  course  of  a  few  days  orders 
came  down  to  bring  Inglesant  up  to  town,  together  with  some  of 
the  most  important  witnesses,  to  be  examined  before  a  Committee 
of  the  House  of  Commons  j  and  this  was  accordingly  done  at 


142  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [chap.  XIII. 

once,  Sir  William  Brereton  accompanying  bis  prisoner  and  con- 
veying him  by  easy  stages  to  London,  where  he  was  confined 
in  St.  James's  Palace  till  the  will  of  the  Parliament  should  be 
known. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

When  the  news  of  the  arrest  of  the  Earl  of  Glamorgan  reached 
Oxford,  it  caused  the  greatest  consternation,  and  the  King  wrote 
letters  in  his  own  name  and  in  that  of  the  Chancellor,  to  the 
Parliament,  and  to  all  the  principal  politicians,  denying  all  par- 
ticipation in  or  knowledge  of  his  negotiations. 

The  most  violent  excitement  prevailed  on  the  subject  all 
over  England.  All  parties,  except  the  Papists,  joined  in  ex- 
pressing the  most  lively  horror  and  indignation  at  proposals 
which  not  only  repudiated  the  policy  of  the  last  hundred  years, 
and  let  loose  the  Papists  to  piursue  their  course  unimpeded,  but 
also  placed  ■  England  at  the  mercy  of  the  most  repulsive  and 
lawless  of  the  followers  of  the  Roman  Catholic  faith.  The  bar- 
barities of  the  Irish  rebels,  which  were  sufficiently  horrible, 
were  magnified  by  riunoiu*  on  every  side ;  and  the  horror  which 
the  EngUsh  conceived  at  the  thought  of  their  homes  being  laid 
open  to  those  monsters,  was  only  equalled  by  their  indignation 
against  those  who  had  conceived  so  treasonable  and  imnatural 
a  plot.  Besides  this,  the  King  having  denied  all  knowledge  of 
such  negotiations,  the  indignation  of  all  loyal  Churchmen  was 
excited  against  those  who  had  so  treasonably  and  miserably 
done  all  they  could  to  compromise  the  King's  name,  and  make 
him  odious  to  all  right-thinking  Englishmen.  The  known  actors 
in  this  affair  being  very  few,  consisting,  indeed,  only  of  the  Earl 
and  Inglesant,  and  of  the  Jesuits  (which  last  was  a  vague  and 
intangible  designation,  standing  in  the  ordinary  English  mind 
merely  as  a  synonym  for  all  that  was  wicked,  base,  and  danger- 
ous), and  the  Earl  being,  moreover,  out  of  reach,  the  public 
indignation  concentrated  on  Inglesant,  and  his  life  would  have 
been  worth  little  had  he  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  mob. 
When  the  news  of  the  fall  of  Chester  and  of  Inglesant's  arrest 
and  subsequent  transference  to  the  Parliamenta  y  commander, 
reached  Oxford,  the  King  sent  for  the  Jesuit  privately,  and  re- 
ceived him  in  bio  cabinet  at  Christ  Church. 


CHAP.  XIII.]  A  ROIVrANCE.  143 

The  King  appeared  anxiouo  and  ill,  and  as  though  he  did 
not  know  where  to  turn  or  what  to  do. 

"You  have  heard  the  news,  Father,  I  suppose,"  he  said. 
"  Lord  Biron,  as  well  as  Digby,  has  taken  upon  himself  to  keep 
the  King's  conscience,  and  know  the  King's  mind  better  than 
he  does  himself.  How  many  Kings  there  are  in  England  now, 
I  do  not  know,  but  I  have  ever  foimd  my  most  faithful  servants 
my  most  strict  masters.  You  know  Jack  Inglesant  has  been 
given  over  to  the  rebels  1    What  are  we  to  do  for  him  V 

"Your  Majesty  can  do  nothing,"  said  the  Jesuit.  "All 
that  could  be  done  has  been  done,  and  as  far  as  may  be  haa 
been  done  well  AU  that  your  Majesty  has  to  do  now  is  to  be 
eHent." 

"  Then  Inglesant  must  be  given  up,"  said  the  King. 

"He  must  be  given  up.     Your  Majesty  has  no  choice." 

"Another!"  said  the  King,  bitterly.  "Strafford,  whose 
blood  tinges  every  sight  I  see  !  Laud,  Glamorgan,  now  another ! 
What  right  have  I  to  suppose  my  servants  will  be  faithful  to 
me,  when  I  give  them  up,  one  by  one,  without  a  word  V 

"  Your  Majesty  does  not  discriminate,"  said  the  Jesuit ; 
"your  good  heart  overpowers  yoiu-  clearer  reason.  It  is  as 
much  yom-  duty  for  the  good  of  the  State,  to  be  deaf  to  the 
voice  of  private  feeling  and  friendship,  as  it  is  for  yoiu:  servants 
to  be  deaf  to  all  but  the  caU  of  duty  to  your  Majesty ;  and  this 
yoiu-  servants  know,  and  do  not  dream  that  they  have  any  cause 
to  complain.  Strafford  and  the  Archbishop  both  acknowledged 
this,  and  now  it  will  be  the  same  again.  There  is  no  fear  of 
John  Inglesant,  your  Majesty." 

"No,"  said  the  King,  rising  and  pacing  the  closet  with 
unequal  steps,  "there  is  no  fear  of  John  Inglesant,  I  believe 
you.     There  is  no  fear  that  any  man  will  betray  his  friends,  S/^ 
and  be  false  to  his  Order  and  his  plighted  word,  except  the 
King !— except  the  King  !" 

Apparently  the  Jesuit  did  not  think  it  worth  while  to 
answer  this  outbreak,  for  he  said,  after  a  pause, — 

"  Your  Majesty  has  written  to  Glamorgan  V 

"  Yes,  I  have  told  him  to  keep  quiet,"  said  the  King,  sitting 
down  again ;  "he  is  in  no  danger — I  am  clear  of  him.  But 
do  you  mean  to  say.  Father,  that  Inglesant  must  be  left  to  the 
gallows  without  a  word?" 

"No,  I  dc  not  say  that,  your  Majesty,"  said  the  other; 


T^jLU»f\€4, 


144  JOHN  INGLES  ANT  j  [chap.  XIII. 

"  the  rebels  will  do  nothing  in  a  hurry,  you  may  depend.  They 
will  do  all  they  can  to  get  something  from  him  which  may  be 
useful  against  your  Majesty,  and  it  will  be  months  before  they 
have  done  with  him.  I  have  good  friends  among  them,  and 
shall  know  all  that  happens.  When  they  are  tired  of  him,  and 
the  thing  is  blown  over  a  little,  I  shall  do  what  I  can." 

"  And  you  are  sure  of  him,"  said  the  King ;  "  any  evidence 
signed  by  him  would  be  fatal  indeed." 

"  Your  Majesty  may  be  quite  easy,"  said  the  other,  "  I  am 
sure  of  him." 

"  They  will  threaten  him  with  the  gallows,"  said  the  King ; 
"  life  is  sweet  to  most  men." 

"  I  suppose  it  is,"  said  the  Jesuit,  as  if  it  were  an  assertion 
he  had  heard  several  times  lately,  and  began  to  think  he  must 
believe ;  "I  have  no  experience  in  such  matters.  But,  however 
sweet  it  may  be,  its  sweetness  will  not  induce  John  luglesant 
to  utter  a  syllable  against  the  cause  in  which  he  is  engaged." 

"You  are  very  confident  of  your  pupil,"  said  the  King. 
"  I  hope  you  will  not  be  deceived." 

The  Jesuit  smiled,  but  did  not  seem  to  think  it  necessary  to 
make  any  further  protestations,  and  soon  after  left  the  closet. 
***** 

Inglesant  remained  some  time  in  confinement  at  St.  James's 
before  he  was  summoned  before  the  Parliamentary  Committee, 
but  at  the  beginning  of  March  another  of  those  extraordinary 
events  occiu-red  which  seemed  arranged  by  some  providential  hand 
to  fight  against  the  King.  A  packet  boat  put  into  Padstow,  in 
Cornwall,  supposing  it  to  be  a  royal  garrison ;  on  discovering 
their  mistake,  and  some  slight  resistance  having  been  over- 
powered, the  captain  tlirew  a  packet  of  letters  and  some  loose 
papers  overboard.  The  papers  were  ^jst,  but  the  packet  was 
fished  out  of  the  sea,  and  proved  to  c/.ntain  the  most  important 
of  the  correspondence  from  Lord  Digby,  describing  the  discovery  of 
the  plot,  the  articles  of  agreement  with  the  Papists,  the  copy  of 
the  warrant  from  the  King  to  the  Earl  of  Glamorgan,  and  several 
letters  from  the  Earl  himself,  all  asserting  his  innocence  of  any 
actions  but  those  directed  and  approved  by  the  King.  These 
letters  were  published  in  extenso  by  the  Parliament  in  a  pamphlet 
which  appeared  on  the  17th.  of  March.  The  information  con- 
tained in  these  papers  was  of  the  greatest  use  to  the  Parliament, 
for,  though  there  was  nothing  in  them  absolutely  to  inculpate  the 


CHAP.  XIII.]  A  ROMANCE.  145 

King  (indeed  the  letters  of  Lord  Digby,  as  far  as  they  went, 
were  strong  proofs  to  the  contrary),  yet  it  placed  it  in  tlieir 
power  to  make  assertions  and  inquiries  based  upon  fact,  and  it 
brought  forward  Lord  Glamorgan  as  an  evidence  on  their  side. 
If  they  could  now  have  produced  a  confession  signed  by  Ingle- 
sant  to  the  same  effect,  the  case  would  have  been  almost  com- 
plete— at  any  rate  few  would  have  hesitated  to  call  the  moral 
proof  certain.  A  Committee  of  the  Commons  was  appointed  to 
examine  Inglesant,  and  he  was  smnmoned  to  appear  before  them. 

On  the  day  appointed  he  was  brought  from  St.  James's  across 
the  Park  in  a  sedan,  guarded  by  soldiers,  and  not  being  recog- 
nized escaped  without  any  notice  from  the  passers-by. 

The  Committee  sat  in  one  of  the  rooms  of  the  Parliament 
House,  and  began  by  asking  Inglesant  his  name. 

"  I  understand,"  said  one  of  the  members  savagely,  "  that 
your  name  is  Inglesant,  of  a  family  of  com^tiers  and  sycophants, 
who  for  generations  have  earned  their  wretched  food  by  doing 
any  kind  of  du'ty  work  the  Court  set  them  ;  and  that  they  never 
failed  to  do  it  so  as  to  earn  a  reputation  even  among  the  mean 
reptiles  of  the  Com-t  precincts.  This  is  true,  is  it  not  1  And 
you  have  held  some  of  those  posts  which  an  honest  man  would 
scorn." 

Inglesant  had  recovered  his  health  during  his  imprisonment, 
thanks  to  rest  und  sufficient  food,  and  his  manner  was  quiet  and 
confident  To  the  attack  of  the  Parliamentarian  he  answered 
simply, — 

"  My  name  is  Inglesant ;  I  have  been  Esquire  of  the  Body 
to  the  King." 

The  Chairman  checked  the  warmth  of  the  Puritan,  and 
began  to  question  Inglesant  concerning  the  plot,  endeavoiuring 
to  throw  him  off  his  guard  by  mentioning  facts  which  had  come 
to  their  knowledge  through  the  recent  discoveries.  But  Ingle- 
sant was  prepared  with  his  story.  Though  he  was  surprised  at 
the  amount  of  knowledge  the  Committee  possessed,  yet  he  stood 
to  his  assertion  that  he  knew  nothing  of  any  instructions  except 
those  which  he  had  himself  received,  and  that  the  whole  plot 
originated  with  the  Jesuits,  as  far  as  he  knew,  and  had  every 
reason  to  beheve.  When  he  was  asked  how  he,  a  Protestant 
and  a  Churchman,  coidd  lend  himself  to  such  a  plot,  he  replied 
that  he  was  very  much  inchned  to  the  Romish  Chmxh,  and  that 
he  thought  the  King's  affairs  so  desperate  that  the  plan  of 


146  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [chap.  XIIL 

obtaining  help  from  the  Irish  rebels  appeared  to  him  and  to 
Father  St.  Clare  as  almost  the  only  resom'ce  left  to  them.  The 
C-ommittee,  finding  gentle  means  fail,  adopted  a  sterner  tone, 
telling  him  he  was  guilty  of  high  treason,  without  benefit,  and 
that  he  might  certainly,  on  his  own  confession,  be  condemned 
to  the  gallows  without  further  trial.  They  then  offered  him  a 
statement  to  sign,  which,  they  said,  they  had  sure  information 
contained  notliing  but  the  truth.  Inglesant  looked  at  it,  and 
saw  that  in  truth  it  did  contain  a  very  fair  statement  of  what 
had  really  taken  place. 

He  replied  that  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  sign  anything 
so  opposite  to  what  he  had  himself  confessed ;  and  that  even  if 
he  did,  no  one  would  believe  so  monstrous  a  statement,  and  one 
so  contrary  to  the  known  opinions  and  professions  of  the  King. 

The  Committee  then  asked  him  why,  if  the  King's  commis- 
sion was  forged,  it  was  kept  back,  and  where  it  was  1 

Inglesant  said  that  "  the  Lord  Biron  had  it,  having  forcibly 
taken  it  from  hiin,  and  refused  to  return  it,  telling  him  plainly 
that  he  should  keep  it  as  evidence  against  him." 

He  observed  that  this  impressed  the  Committee,  and  he  was 
soon  after  dismissed.  He  retm-ned  to  St.  James's  the  same  way 
that  he  came,  but  found  a  strong  guard  summoned  to  attend 
him;  for,  the  news  of  his  examination  having  got  wind,  the 
crowd  assembled  at  the  Parliament  llouse,  and  accompanied 
him,  with- hootings  and  insults  of  every  kind,  across  the  Park. 

As  one  result  of  his  examination,  Inglesant  was  removed 
from  St.  James's,  and  sent  by  water  to  the  Tower,  where  a  close 
confinement  in  a  small  cell,  and  insuflicient~dieI7again  aff'ected 
his  health.  He  formed  the  idea  that  the  Parliament  intended 
to  weaken  him  with  long  imprisonment,  and  so  cause  him  to 
confess  what  they  wished ;  he  feared  that  the  state  of  his  health, 
and  especially  the  extent  to  which  his  brain  was  aff'ected,  would 
assist  this  purpose ;  and  this  fear  preyed  upon  him,  and  made 
him  nervous  and  miserable — dreading  above  everything  that, 
his  mind  being  clouded,  he  might  say  something  inadvertently 
which  might  discover  the  truth.  His  health  rapidly  declined, 
and  he  became  again  thin  and  worn.  The  Parliament  Com- 
mittee now  spread  a  report  that  the  royal  party,  who  pretended 
to  indicate  the  off"enders  in  this  plot,  did  not  really  do  so ;  and 
that  in  particular  they  kejDt  back  the  originals  of  the  King's 
warrants  and  commissions,  which  they  asserted  ,to  be  forgeries, 


CHAP.  XIII.]  A  ROIVIANCE.  147 

and  refused  to  "bring  them  forward  and  submit  them  to  proof, 
which  would  be  the  siu-est  way  of  making  the  fact  of  the  King's 
ignorance  of  them  certain.  They  did  this  because  they  knew 
Lord  Biron's  character  as  a  man  of  unstained  and  unsuspicious 
honoiu",  and  they  calculated  that  such  a  taunt  as  this  would  be 
certain  to  bring  him  forward  with  the  commission,  which  he  had 
in  his  keeping,  and  which  they  trusted  to  be  able  to  prove  was 
a  genuine  document.  Their  pohcy  had  the  desii-ed  effect.  Lord 
Biron,  who  was  at  ISTewstead,  without  consulting  any  one,  sent 
up  a  special  messenger  to  the  Speaker  to  say  that,  a  safe-conduct 
being  granted  him,  he  would  come  up  to  London,  and  appear 
before  the  Committee  of  Parliament,  bringing  the  commission, 
which  he  asserted  was  a  palpable  forgery,  with  him.  The  safe- 
conduct  was  immediately  sent  him,  and  he  came  up.  The 
Committee  were  rejoiced  at  the  success  of  their  policy,  and  fixed 
a  day  for  him  to  appear  before  them,  and  at  the  same  time 
ordered  Inglesant  to  be  fetched  up  from  the  Tower  to  be  con- 
fronted with  his  lordship.  The  affair  caused  the  greatest  in- 
terest, and  the  Committee  Eoom  was  thronged  with  all  who 
could  command  suflBcient  influence  to  obtain  entrance,  and  crowds 
filled  the  corridors  and  the  precincts  of  the  House.  Lord  Biron 
was  introduced,  and  gave  his  evidence  with  great  clearness, 
describing  the  arrest  of  Inglesant,  his  suspicious  conduct,  and 
his  attempt  to  induce  Lord  Biron  to  destroy  the  warrant ;  and 
finally  produced  the  paper,  and  handed  it  to  the  clerk  of  the 
Committee.  The  Chairman  then  ordered  Inglesant  to  be  brought 
in  through  a  side  door,  and  he  came  up  to  the  bar. 

His  appearance  was  so  altered,  and  his  manner  so  cowed  and 
embarrassed,  that  a  murmiu'  ran  through  the  room,  and  Lord 
Biron  could  not  restrain  an  exclamation  of  pity.  Inglesant 
started  when  he  saw  him,  for  he  had  been  kept  in  complete 
ignorance  of  what  had  occurred,  and  ^s  mind  immediately 
recmTed  to  the  commission.  He  was  evidently  making  the 
greatest  efforts  to  collect  himself  and  keep  himself  calm. 
Nothing  could  have  told  more  against  himself,  or  in  favom'  of 
the  part  he  was  playing,  than  his  whole  demeanoiu*. 

He  was  examined  minutely  on  the  circmnstances  of  his  arrest, 
and  related  everything  exactly  as  it  occurred,  which,  indeed,  he 
had  done  before — both  his  relations  tallying  exactly  with  Lord 
Biron's. 

When  asked  wliat  his  business  was  in  Chester,  he  said — to 


148  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [ohap.  xiii.  • 

prepare  the  Cavaliers  to  receive  the  Irish  help ;  and  added  that 
he  had  been  obliged  to  communicate  a  great  deal  more  to  Lord 
Biron  than  he  had  wished  or  intended,  and  that  Lord  Biron 
had  always  manifested  the  greatest  suspicion  of  him  and  of  his 
mission. 

■  He  gave  his  evidence  steadily,  but  without  looking  at  Lord 
Biron,  or  indeed  at  any  one. 

When  asked  why  he  wished  to  recover  po'ssession  of  the 
commission,  or  at  least  to  induce  Lord  Biron  to  burn  it,  he 
replied, — 

"  Lest  it  should  serve  as  evidence  against  myself." 

This  seemed  to  most  present  a  very  natiu-al  answer ;  yet  it 
caused  Lord  Biron  to  start,  and  to  fix  a  searching  glance  on 
Inglesant. 

As  a  gentleman  of  high  breeding  and  instinctive  honour, 
it  jarred  upon  his  instinct,  and  conveyed  a  sudden  suspicion 
that  Inglesant  was  acting.  That  the  latter  might  be  so  utterly 
perverted  by  his  Jesuit  teaching  as  to  be  lost  to  all  sense  of 
right  and  truth,  he  was  prepared  to  believe;  that  he  might 
have  been  led  into  treason  knowingly  or  inadvertently,  he  was 
willing  to  think ;  but  the  low  and  pitiful  motive  that  he  gave 
was  so  opposed  to  his  previous  character,  notorious  for  a  fan- 
tastic elevation  and  refinement  of  sentiment,  that  it  supposed 
him  a  monster,  or  that  some  miracle  had  been  wrought  upon 
him.  A  terrible  doubt — a  doubt  which  Bu-on  had  once  or 
twice  already  seen  faintly  in  the  distance — approached  nearer 
and  looked  him  in  the  face. 

The  Committee  had  examined  the  commission  one  by  one, 
comparing  it  with  some  of  the  King's  writing  which  they  had 
before  them ;  finally  it  passed  into  the  hands  of  a  Mr.  Green- 
way,  a  lawyer  skilled  in  questions  of  evidence  and  of  writing, 
who  examined  it  attentively. 

It  was  cmious  to  see  the  behaviour  of  the  two  men  under 
examination  w^hile  this  was  going  on ;  Lord  Biron,  as  a  noble 
gentleman,  from  whose  mind  the  doubt  of  a  few  minutes  ago 
had  passed,  standing  erect  and  confident,  looking  haughtily  and 
freely  at  the  expert,  secure  in  his  own  honour  and  in  that  of 
his  King :  Inglesant,  cowed  and  anxious,  leaning  forw^ard  over 
the  bar,  his  eyes  fixed  also  on  the  lawyer — pale,  his  lips 
twitching  — the  very  picture  of  the  guilty  prisoner  in  the 
docJi. 


CHAP.  Xlli.]  A  ROMANCE.  149 

The  expert  looked  at  both  the  men  curiously,  then  threw 
down  the  paper  contemptuously.  ^ 

"  It  is  a  palpable  forgery,"  he  said ;  "  and  not  even  a  clever 
imitation  of  the  King's  hand." 

And  indeed,  from  some  accident  or  other,  the  letters  were, 
some  of  them,  formed  in  a  manner  unusual  to  the  King. 

Inglesant,  weakened  with  illness  and  anxiety,  could  not 
restrain  a  movement  of  intense  rehef.  He  drew  a  long  breath 
and  stood  erect,  as  if  relieved  from  an  oppressive  weight.  He 
raised  his  eyes,  and  they  caught  those  of  Lord  Biron,  which  had 
been  attracted  towards  him,  and  were  fixed  full  on  his  face. 

Biron  started  again;  there  was  not  the  least  doubt  that 
Inglesant  rejoiced  in  the  proof  of  the  forgery  of  the  warrant. 
That  terrible  doubt  stood  close  now  before  his  lordship,  and 
f/rasped  him  by  the  throat. 

Suppose,  after  all,  this  man  whom  he  had  imprisoned  and 
despised,  whose  mission  he  had  thwarted — this  man  whom  all 
the  royal  party  were  calling  by  every  contemptuous  name,  who 
stood  there  pale,  cowed,  beaten  down ; — suppose,  after  all,  that 
this  man,  alone  against  these  terrible  odds,  was  all  tlie  time 
lighting  a  desperate  battle  for  the  King's  honour,  forsaken  by 
God  and  men !  But  the  consequences  which  would  follow,  if 
this  view  of  the  matter  w^re  the  true  one,  were,  in  Lord  Biron's 
estimation,  too  terrible  to*  be  thought  of. 

"I  wish  to  say,"  said  Inglesant,  looking  straight  before 
him,  "  that  the  Lord  Biron  obtained  possession  of  that  paper 
when  he  was  in  possession  of  information  of  which  I  was 
ignorant.  His  lordship  would  probably  have  behaved  differently, 
but  he  thought  he  was  speaking  to  a  thief" 

There  was  something  in  this  covert  reproach,  so  worded, 
which  so  exactly  accorded  with  what  was  passing  in  Lord 
Biron's  mind  that  it  cut  him  to  the  quick. 

"I  assure  you,  Mr.  Inglesant,"  he  said  eagerly,  "you  are 
mistaken.  Whatever  I  may  think  of  the  cause  in  which  you 
are  engaged,  I  have  always  wished  to  behave  to  you  as  to  a 
gentleman.  If  you  consider  that  you  have  cause  of  complaint 
against  me,  I  shall  be  ready,  when  these  unhappy  complications 
are  well  over,  as  I  trust  they  may  be,  to  give  you  satisfaction 
and  to  beg  your  pardon  afterwards." 

He  said  these  last  words  so  pointedly  that  Inglesant  started, 
and  saw  at  once  that  his  fear  had  been  vv^ell  founded,  and  that, 


150  JOHN  INGLES  ANT;  [chap.  XIIL 

thrown  off  his  guard  by  the  success  of  the  examination  of  the 
warrant,  he  liacl  made  a  mistake.  He  looked  ap  quickly  at 
Biron — a  strange  terror  in  his  face — and  their  eyes  met. 

That  they  understood  each  other  is  probable ;  at  any  rate 
Inglesant's  look  was  so  full  of  warning  that  Biron  understood 
thcit  if  nothing  more,  and  restrained  himself  at  once.  All  this 
had  passed  almost  imnoticed  by  the  Committee,  who  were  con- 
sulting together. 

Lord  Biron  left  the  room,  and  Inglesant  was  taken  back  to 
the  Tower  as  he  had  come.  Mr.  Secretary  Milton,  who  had 
been  present  as  a  spectator,  left  the  Parliament  House  and  pro- 
ceeded at  once  to  Clerkenwell  Green  to  the  house  of  General 
Cromwell,  and  related  to  him  and  to  General  Ireton,  who  was 
with  him,  what  had  occm'red. 

"  They  have  gained  nothing  by  getting  this  warrant,"  he 
said;  "nay,  you  have  lost,  rather.  You  have  brought  up 
Lord  Biron,  who  comes  forward  in  the  light  of  day  and  with 
the  utmost  confidence,  and  challenges  this  paper  to  be  a  forgery, 
and  your  own  lawyers  bear  him  out  in  it.  I  have  not  the  least 
doubt  it  is  the  King's ;  but  some  of  the  letters,  either  purposely 
or  more  probably  by  accident,  are  not  in  his  usual  hand,  and 
the  best  judges  cannot  agree  on  these  matters.  Out  of  Ingle- 
sant you  will  get  nothing.  He  is  a  consummate  actor,  as  I 
have  known  of  old.  He  is  prepared  at  every  point,  and  care- 
fully trained  by  his  masters  the  Jesuits.  I  know  these  men, 
and  have  seen  them  both  here  and  abroad.  Acting  on  select 
natures  the  training  is  perfect.  They  will  go  to  death  more 
indifferently  than  to  a  Court  ball.  You  may  rack  them  to  the 
extremity  of  anguish,  and  in  the  delirium  of  pain  they  will  say 
what  they  have  been  trained  to  say,  and  not  the  truth.  You 
may  wear  him  out  with  fasting  and  anxiety  until  he  makes 
some  mistake ;  he  made  two  to-day,  besides  one  which  was  a 
necessity  of  the  case, — for  I  do  not  see  what  else  he  could  have 
said, — that  was  so  slight  that  no  one  saw  it  but  Biron.  Weak- 
ened by  anxiety,  doubtless,  he  could  not  restrain  a  movement 
of  relief  v/hen  the  expert  declared  the  warrant  a  forgery ;  Biron 
saw  that  too,  for  I  watcihed  him.  Last,  which  was  the  greatest 
mistake  of  all,  and  would  show  that  his  training  is  not  entirely 
perfect,  were  we  not  to  make  allowance  for  his  broken  health, 
he  forgot  his  part,  and  suffered  his  passion  to  get  the  better  of 
him,  and  to  taunt  Lord  Biron  in  such  a  way  that  Biron>  who  I 


CHAP.  XIII.]  A  ROMANCE.  151 

think  till  then  honestly  believed  the  King's  word,  very  nearly 
let  out  the  truth  in  his  astonishment.  But  what  do  yoa  gaia 
by  all  this  ?  It  rather  adds  to  the  apparent  truth  of  the  man's 
story,  and  gives  life  to  his  evidence.  Nothing  but  his  written 
testimony  will  be  of  any  use,  and  this  you  will  never  get." 

"He  shall  be  tried  for  his  life  at  any  rate,"  said  Cromwell. 

"  You  have  threatened  him  with  that  already." 

"  Threatening  is  one  thing,"  replied  the  General,  "  to  stand 
beneath  the  gallows  condemned  to  death  anotlier." 

*  *  *  *  * 

News  of  the  taking  of  Chester  and  of  the  arrest  of  John 
Inglesant  on  such  a  terrible  charge — a  charge  at  once  of  treason 
against  the  King,  his  country,  and  his  religion — as  it  travelled 
at  once  over  England,  reached  Gidding  in  due  course.  It  caused 
the  greatest  dismay  and  distress  in  that  quiet  household.  About 
the  middle  of  April  a  gentleman  of  Huntingdon,  a  Parliament 
man,  who  had  lately  come  from  London,  dined  with  the  family. 
He  told  them  during  dinner  that  he  had  been  present  in  the 
Committee  Room  when  Mr.  Inglesant  had  been  examined. 
When  dinner  was  over  Mr.  John  Ferrar,  who  was  now  at  the 
head  of  the  family,  remained  at  table  with  this  gentleman,  being 
a;nxious  to  hear  more,  and  Mary  Collet  also  stayed  to  hear  what 
she  could  of  her  friend,  watching  every  word  with  eager  eyes. 
In  that  family,  where  there  was  nothing  but  love  and  kindliness 
and  entire  sympathy,  it  was  thought  only  natural  that  she  should 
do  so,  and  no  ill-natured  thought  occurred  to  any  member  of  it. 
The  Parliament  man  described  more  at  full  the  examination 
before  the  Committee,  and  Inglesant's  worn  and  guilty  appear- 
ance,— sad  news,  indeed,  to  both  his  hearers.  He  described  Lord 
Biron's  examination,  and  the  production  of  the  forged  warrant. 

"And  did  John  Inglesant  admit  that  it  was  forged?"  said 
Mr.  Ferrar. 

"  Yes,  he  said  from  his  own  knowledge  that  it  was  prepared 
by  Father  St.  Clare  the  Jesuit." 

"  It  is  a  strange  world,"  said  Mr.  Ferrar  dreamily,  "  and 
the  Divine  call  seems  to  lead  some  of  us  into  slippery  places — ■ 
scarcely  the  heavenly  places  in  Christ  of  which  the  Apostle 
dreamt." 

The  gentleman  did  not  understand  him,  nor  did  Mary 
Collet  altogether  imtil  afterwards 

Presently  Mr.  Ferrar  said, — 


152  JOHN  INGLESANT  ;  [cHAP.  XIIL 

"And  what  io  you  tliink  of  it  all?  Was  the  warrant 
forged  or  not  f 

"  I  am  somewhat  at  a  loss  what  to  think,"  said  the  other, 
"  I  am  not,  as  you  know,  Mr.  Ferrar,  and  without  wishing  to 
offend  you,  an  admirer  of  the  King,  but  I  do  not  believe  him 
to  be  a  fool  and  mad.  There  is  no  doubt  that  he  has  tampered 
with  the  Papists  throughout,  yet  I  cannot  think,  unless  he  is  in 
greater  extremities  than  we  suppose,  tliat  he  would  have  prac- 
tised so  wild  and  mad  a  scheme  as  this  one  of  the  Irish  rebels 
and  murderers.  On  the  other  hand,  I  can  conceive  nothing  too 
bad  for  the  Jesuits  to  attempt ;  and  it  seems  to  me  that  I  can 
discern  something  of  their  hand  in  this — an  introduction  of  an 
armed  Papist  force  into  the  country,  to  be  joined,  doubtless,  by 
all  the  English  Papists ;  only  I  should  have  thought  they  could 
have  procured  this-  without  bringing  in  the  King's  name,  but 
doubtless  they  had  some  reason  for  this  also.  The  general 
opinion  among  the  Parliament  men  is  that  the  warrant  is  the 
King's,  and  that  he  has  planned  the  whole  thing.  On  the  other 
hand,  it  is  plain  the  Cavaliers  do  not  believe  it,  or  Lord  Biron 
would  never  have  come  boldly  up  of  his  own  accord,  and  brought 
up  the  warrant  so  confidently." 

"But  does  not  the  warrant  itself  prove  something  one  way 
or  the  other  f  said  Mr.  Ferrar. 

"  These  things  are  very  difficult  to  judge  upon,"  said  the 
gentleman.  ".  The  expert  to  whom  the  Committee  gave  it  pro- 
nounced it  a  forgery  upon  the  spot,  but  he  has  been  greatly 
blamed  for  precipitancy  ;  and  others  to  whom  it  has  been  shown 
pronounce  it  geimiiie.  Some  of  the  letters  certainly  are  not 
like  the  King's,  but  the  style  of  the  hand  is  the  King's  they 
say,  even  in  these  unusual  letters.  By  the  way,  if  you  had  seen 
luglesant's  guilty  look  when  the  expert  took  the  paper  in  his 
hand,  you  would  say  with  me  it  was  a  forgery.  You  could  not, 
to  my  mind,  have  a  stronger  proof." 

"  But  if  the  King  had  ordered  this,  would  not  he  help  Mr. 
Inglesanf?"  Mary  Collet  ventured  to  say. 

"  Help  ?  madam,"'  said  the  gentleman  warmly ;  "  when  did 
the  King  help  any  of  his  friends  V 

"  Whichever  way  it  is,"  said  Mr.  Ferrar  mildly,  "  he  cannot 
help.  To  help  would  be  to  condemn  himself  in  public  opinion, 
which  in  these  unhappy  distractions  he  dare  not  do.  Did  Lord 
Biron  speak  to  Mr.  Inglesant,  eir  V 


CHAP.  XIII.]  A  ROMANCE.  15^'  S  I  T  T' 

**  Very  little.  They  taunted  each  other  once,  and  seemed 
about  to  come  to  blows.  All  the  evidence  went  to  show  that 
Lord  Biron  suspected  him  from  the  first." 

The  gentleman  soon  after  left.  Mr.  Ferrar  returned  to  the 
dining-room  after  seeing  him  to  his  horse,  and  foimd  Mary  Collet 
sitting  where  they  had  left  her,  lost  in  sad  and  humiliating 
thought. 

He  sat  down  near  her  and  said  kindly, — 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Mary,  I  hardly  know  which  of  the  two 
alternatives  is  the  best  for  your  friend — for  my  friend ;  but  it 
fe  better  at  least  for  you  to  know  the  truth,  and  I  think  I  can 
now  pretty  much  tell  which  is  the  true  one.  If  this  plot  were 
altogether  the  Jesuits',  John  Inglesant  would  not  say  it.  If 
the  King  had  no  hand  in  it,  proof  would  be  given  a  th  asand 
ways  without  having  recourse  to  this.  There  are  other  facts 
which  to  my  mind  are  conclusive  that  this  way  of  thinking  is 
the  right  one,  but  I  need  not  tell  them  all  to  you.  What  I 
have  said  I  should  say  to  none  but  you.  You  will  see  that  it 
is  of  the  utmost  importance  that  you  say  nothing  of  it  to  any. 
I  believe  you  may  comfort  yom-self  in  thinking  that,  according 
to  the  light  which  is  given  him,  John  Inglesant  is  following 
what  he  believes  to  be  his  duty,  and  none  can  say  at  any  rate 
that  it  is  a  smooth  and  easy  path  he  has  chosen  to  walk  in." 

Mary  Collet  thanked  him,  her  beautiful  eyes  full  of  tears, 
and  left  the  room. 

A  few  days  afterwards  the  news  ran  like  wildfire  over 
England  that  the  King  had  left  Oxford  secretly,  and  that  no  one 
knew  where  he  was ;  and  a  night  or  two  afterwards  Mr.  John 
Ferrar  was  called  up  by  a  gentleman  who  said  he  was  Dr. 
Hudson,  the  King's  Chaplain,  and  that  the  King  was  alone,  a 
few  paces  from  the  door,  and  that  he  would  immediately  fetch 
him  in. 

Mr.  Ferrar  received  His  Majesty  with  all  possible  respect. 
But  fearing  that  Gidding,  from  the  known  loyalty  of  the  family, 
might  be  a  suspected  place,  for  better  concealment  he  conducted 
the  King  to  a  private  house  at  Coppingford,  an  obscure  village 
at  a  small  distance  from  Gidding,  and  not  far  from  Stilton.  It 
was  a  very  dark  night,  and  but  for  the  lantern  Mr.  Ferrar 
carried,  they  could  not  have  known  the  way.  As  it  was,  they 
lost  their  way  once,  and  wandered  for  some  time  in  a  ploughed 
field.     Mr.  Ferrar  always  spoke  with  the  utmost  passionate  dia- 


154  JOHN  IN'JLESANT;  [chap.  xit. 

tress  of  this  night,  as  of  a  night  the  incidents  of  -which  must 
have  awakened  the  compassion  of  every  feeling  heart,  however 
biassed  against  the  King.  As  a  proof  of  the  most  affecting  dis- 
tress, the  King,  he  said,  was  serene  and  even  cheerful,  and  said 
he  was  protected  by  the  King  of  kings.  His  Majesty  slept  at 
Coppingford,  but  early  in  the  May  morning  he  was  up,  and  parted 
from  Mr.  Ferrar,  going  towards  Stamford.  Mr.  Ferrar  returned 
to  his  house,  and  two  days  after  it  was  known  that  the  King 
had  given  himself  up  to  the  Scottish  army. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Ingles  ANT  remained  in  prison,  and  would  have  thought  that  he 
had  been  forgotten,  but  that  every  few  weeks  he  was  sent  for 
by  the  Committee  and  examined.  The  Committee  got  no  new 
f  lets  from  him,  and  indeed  probably  did  not  expect  to  get  any ; 
but  it  was  very  useful  to  the  Parliament  party  to  keep  him 
before  the  public  gaze  as  a  Royalist  and  a  Jesuit.  It  was  a 
common  imputation  upon  the  Cavaliers  that  they  were  Papists, 
and  anything  that  strengthened  this  belief  made  the  King's 
party  odious  to  the  nation.  Here  was  a  servant  of  the  King's, 
an  avowed  Jesuit,  and  one  self-condemned  in  the  most  terrible 
crimes.  It  is  true  he  was  disowned  by  the  royal  party,  appa- 
rently sincerely ;.  but  the  general '  impression  conveyed  by  his 
case  was  favom^able  to  the  Parliament,  and  they  therefore  took 
care  to  keep  it  before  the  world.  These  examinations  were 
looked  foi-ward  to  by  Inglesant  with  gTeat  pleasure,  the  row  up 
the  river  and  the  sight  of  fresh  faces  being  such  a  delight  to 
him.  He  was  not  confined  to  his  room,  being  allowed  to  walk 
at  certain  hours  iji  the  court  of  the  ToM^er,  and  he  found  a  box 
containing  a  few  books,  a  Lucretius  and  a  few  other  Latin  books, 
probably  left  by  some  former  occupant  of  the  cell.  These  were 
not  taken  from  him,  and  he  read  and  re-read  them,  especially  the 
Lucretius,  many  times.  They  saved  him  from  utter  prostration 
and  despair, — they  and  a  secret  help  which  he  acknowledged 
afterwards, — a  help,  which  to  men  of  his  nature  certainly  does 
come  upon  prayer  to  God,  to  whatever  som-ce  it  may  be  ascribed  ; 
a  help  which  in  terrible  sleepless  hours,  in  hours  of  dreacl 
weariness  of  life,  in  hours  of  nervous  pain  more  terrible  than  all, 


CHAP.  XIV.]  A  ROMANCE.  155 

calms  the  heart  and  soothes  the  brain,  and  leaves  peaee  and 
cheerfulness  and  content  in  the  place  of  restlessness  and  despair. 
Jnglesant  said  that  repeating  the  name  of  Jesus  simply  in  the 
lonely  nights  kept  his  brain  quiet  when  it  was  on  the  point  of 
distraction,  being  of  the  same  mind  as  Sir  Charles  Lucas,  when, 
"  many  times  calling  upon  the  sacred  name  of  Jesus,"  he  was 
shot  dead  at  Colchester. 

More  than  a  year  passed  over  hira.  From  the  scraps  of 
news  he  could  gather  from  his  jailer,  and  from  the  soldiers  in 
the  com-t  during  his  walks,  he  learnt  that  the  King  had  been 
given  up  by  the  Scots,  had  escaj^ed  from  Hampton  Court,  had 
been  retaken  and  sent  to  Carisbrook,  and  was  soon  to  come  U\ 
London,  the  man  said,  for  his  trial. 

It  was  soon  after  he  had  learnt  this  last  news  that  his  jailei 
suddenly  informed  him  that  he  was  to  be  tried  for  his  life. 

Accordingly,  soon  after,  a  warrant  arrived  from  Bradshaw, 
the  President  of  the  Council  of  State,  to  bring  him  before  that 
body. 

The  Council  sat  in  Essex  House,  and  some  gentlemen,  who 
had  siurrendered  Pembroke  upon  terms  that  they  should  depart 
the  country  in  three  days,  but — accoimting  it  base  to  desert 
their  j)rince,  and  hoping  that  there  might  be  farther  occasion  of 
service  to  His  Majesty, — had  remained  in  London,  were  upon 
their  trial.  When  Jnglesant  arrived  with  his  guard  these 
gentlemen  were  under  examination,  and  one  of  them,  who  had 
a  ^dfe  and  children,  was  fighting  hard  for  his  life,  arguing  the 
case  step  by  step  with  the  lawyers  and  the  Coimcil.  Jnglesant 
was  left  waiting  in  the  anteroom  several  hom-s ;  from  the  con- 
versation he  overheard,  the  room  being  constantly  full  of  all 
sorts  of  men  coming  and  going — soldiers,  lawyers,  divines — he 
learnt  that  the  King's  trial  was  coming  on  very  soon,  and  he 
fancied  that  his  name  was  mentioned,  as  though  the  nearness  of 
the  King's  trial  ha^l  something  to  do  with  his  own  being  hm-ried 
on.  Jt  was  a  cold  day,  and  there  was  a  large  fire  in  the  ante- 
room. Jnglesant  had  had  nothing  to  eat  since  morning,  and 
felt  weak  and  faint.  He  wished  the  other  examiiiations  over 
that  his  own  might  come  on ;  his,  he  thought,  would  not  take 
long.  At  last  the  gentlemen  were  referred  to  the  Council  of 
War,  to  be  dealt  with  as  spies,  and  came  out  of  the  Coimcil 
chamber  with  their  guards.  The  one  was  a  plain  country 
gentleman,  and  neither  of  them  knew  Jnglesant,  but,  stopping  a 


153  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [cHAP.  xiv. 

moment  in  the  anteroom,  while  the  guard  prepared  themselves, 
one  of  them  asked  his  name,  sayino-  he  was  afraid  they  had 
kept  him  waiting  a  long  time.  This  was  Colonel  Eustace 
Powell,  and  Inglesant  met  him  again  when  he  thought  he  had 
only  a  few  minutes  to  live. 

The  Council  debated  whether  they  should  hear  Inglesant 
that  day,  as  it  was  now  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  the"  candles 
were  lighted,  but  finally  he  was  sent  for  into  the  Council. 

As  soon  as  he  came  to  the  bar,  Bradshaw  asked  him 
suddenly  when  he  saw  the  King  last,  to  which  he  replied  that 
he  had  not  seen  the  King  since  Naseby  field. 

"You  were  at  Naseby,  then  ?"  said  Bradshaw 

"Yes,"  said  Inglesant. 

"And  you  ran  away,  I  suppose  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Johnny,  "I  ran  away." 

"  Then  you  are  a  coward  as  well  as  a  traitor,"  said  Brad* 
shaw. 

"  I  am  not  braver  than  other  men,"  said  Inglesant. 

Inglesant  was  then  examined  -more  in  form,  but  very 
shortly ;  everything  he  said  having  been  said  so  often  before. 

The  President  then  told  him  that,  by  his  own  confession, 
he  was  guilty  of  death,  and  should  be  hanged  at  once  if  he 
persisted  in  it,  but  that  the  Council  did  not  believe  his  confes- 
sion— indeed,  had  evidence  and  confessions  from  others  to  prove 
the  reverse ;  and  therefoi-e,  if  he  persisted  in  his  course,  he  was 
his  own  murderer,  and  could  hope  for  no  mercy  from  God. 
That  if  he  would  sign  the  declaration  which  they  offfered  him, 
which  they  knew  to  be  true,  and  which  stated  that  he  had  only 
acted  under  the  King's  orders,  he  should  not  only  have  his  life 
spared,  but  should  very  shortly  be  set  at  liberty. 

To  this  he  replied  that  if  they  had  evidence  to  prove  what 
they  said,  they  did  not  want  his ;  that  he  could  not  put  his 
name<to  evidence  so  contrary  to  what  he  had  always  confessed, 
and  was  prepared  to  stand  by  to  death ;  that,  as  to  his  fate 
before  God,  he  left  his  soul  in  His  hands,  who  was  more  merci- 
fid  than  man. 

To  this  Bradshaw  replied  that  they  were  most  merciful  to 
him,  and  desired  to  save  him  from  himself;  that,  if  he  died,  he 
died  with  a  he  upon  his  lips,  from  his  own  obstinacy  and 
suicide. 

Making  no  answer  to  this^  he  was  ordered  back  to  the 


CHAP.  XIV  ]  A  liO^lANCE.  157 

Tower,  and  warned  to  prepare  himself  for  death.  He  saw 
clearly  that  their  object  was  to  bring  out  evidence  signed  by 
him  on  the  eve  of  the  King's  trial,  which  no  doubt  would  have 
been  a  great  help  to  their  cause.  As  he  went  back  in  his  barge 
to  the  Tower,  he  wondered  why  they  did  not  publish  something 
with  his  name  attached,  without  troubling  themselves  about  his 
consent.  As  they  went  down  the  river,  the  darkness  became 
denser,  and  the  boat  passed  close  to  many  other  wherries, 
nearly  running  them  down ;  the  lights  on  the  boats  and  the 
barges  glimmered  indistinctly,  and  made  the  course  more 
difficult  and  uncertain.  They  shot  the  bridge  under  the  mass 
of  dark  houses  and  irregular  lights,  and  proceeded  across  the 
pool  towards  the  Tower  stairs.  The  pool  was  somewhat  clear 
of  ships,  and  the  lanterns  upon  the  wharves  and  such  vessels  as 
were  at  anchor  made  a  clearer  light  than  that  above  the  bridge. 
As  they  crossed  the  pool,  a  wherry,  rowed  by  a  single  man, 
came  towards  them  obliquely  from  the  Surrey  side,  so  as  to 
approach  near  enough  to  discern  their  persons,  and  then, 
crossing  their  bows,  suffered  itself  to  be  run  down  before  the 
barge  could  be  stopped.  The  waterman  climbed  in  at  the  bows, 
as  his  own  wherry  filled  and  went  down.  He  seemed  a  stupid, 
siirly  man,  and  might  be  supposed  to  be  either  deaf  or  drunk. 
To  the  abuse  of  the  soldiers  and  watermen  he  made  no  answer 
but  that  he  was  an  up-river  waterman,  and  was  confused  by  the 
lights  and  the  current  of  the  bridge.  The  officer  called  him 
forward  into  the  stern,  and  as  he  tume  towards  them  Inglesant 
knew  him  in  spite  of  his  perfect  disguise.  It  was  the  Jesuit. 
He  answered  as  many  of  the  officer's  questions  as  he  appeared 
to  understand,  and  took  no  manner  of  notice  of  Inglesant,  who 
of  course  appeared  entirely  indifferent  and  uninterested.  When 
they  landed  at  the  stairs,  the  waterman,  with  a  perfectly  pro- 
fessional manner,  swung  himself  over  the  side  into  the  water, 
and  steadied  the  boat  for  the  gentlemen  to  land,  which  act  the 
officer  took  as  an  awkward  expression  of  respect  and  gratitude. 
As  Inglesant  passed  him  he  put  his  hand  up  for  his  to  rest  on, 
and  Johnny  felt  a  folded  note  passed  into  it.  Without  the 
least  pause,  he  followed  the  officer  across  the  Tower  wharf,  and 
was  conducted  to  his  room.  As  soon  as  he  was  alone  he 
examined  the  paper,  which  contained  these  words  only : — 

"  You  are  not  forgotten.     Keep  on  a  little  longer.     The  end 
is  very  near." 


158  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [chap.  xiv. 

It  made  little  impression  upon  him,  nor  did  it  influence  his 
after  conduct,  which  had  already  been  sufficiently  determined 
upon.  He  expected  very  little  help  from  any  one,  though  he 
believed  that  Father  St.  Clare  would  do  what  he  could.  The 
Jesuit  would  have  died  himself  at  aiiy  moment  had  his  purpose 
required  it,  and  he  could  not  think  that  he  would  regard  as  of 
much  importance  the  fall  of  another  soldier  in  the  same  rank. 
He  was  mistaken,  but  he  did  not  know  it ;  the  Jesuit,  beneath 
his  placid  exterior,  retained  for  his  favourite  and  cleverest  pupil 
an  almost  passionate  regard,  and  would  have  done  for  him  far 
more  than  he  would  have  thought  worth  the  doing  for  himself. 
Meanwhile,  Inglesant  translated  his  words  into  a  different 
language,  and  thought  more  than  once  that  doubtless  they  were 
rery  true,  and  that,  though  in  a  sense  not  intended,  the  end  was 
very  near. 

This  took  place  at  the  beginning  of  December,  and  about  a 
week  afterwards  the  jailer  advised  Inglesant  to  prepare  for 
death,  for  the  warrant  to  behead  him  was  signed,  and  would 
be  put  into  execution  that  day  week  at  Charing  Cross.  He 
immediately  sent  a  petition  to  the  Council  of  State,  that  a 
Priest,  either  of  the  Roman  Catholic  or  the  English  Church,  he 
was  indifferent  which,  might  be  sent  him.  To  tliis  an  answer 
was  sent  immediately  that  he  was  dying  with  a  lie  upon  his  lips, 
and  that  the  presence  of  no  priest  or  minister  could  be  of  any 
use  to  him,  and  would  not  be  granted.  The  same  day  a  Presby- 
terian minister  was  admitted  to  him,  who  used  the  same  argu- 
ments for  some  time  without  effect,  representing  the  fearful 
condition  that  Inglesant  was  in  as  an  unrepentant  sinner. 
Inglesant  began  to  regret  that  he  had  made  any  application,  and 
this  regret  was  increased  two  days  afterwards  when  a  man,  who 
offered  him  certain  proofs  that  he  was  a  Roman  Catholic  Priest, 
was  admitted,  and  gave  him  the  same  advice,  refusing  him 
Absolution  and  the  Sacrament  unless  he  complied.  Upon  this 
Inglesant  became  desperate,  and  refused  to  speak  again.  The. 
Priest  waited  some  time  and  then  left,  telling  hhn  he  was 
eternally  lost. 

This  w^as  the  severest  trial  he  had  yet  met  with ;  but  his 
knowledge  of  the  different  parties  in  the  Romish  Church,  and 
the  extent  to  which  they  subordinated  their  religion  to  their 
political  intrigues,  was  too  great  to  allow  him  to  feel  it  so  much 
as  he  otherwise  would.     He  resigned  himself  to  die  unassisted. 


CHAP,  xrr.]  A  ROMANCE.  159 

He  applied  for  an  English  Prayer  Book,  but  thiy  also  was 
refused.  He  rememlDered  the  old  monastic  missals  he  had 
possessed  at  Westacre,  and  thought  over  all  those  days  with  the 
tenderest  regret. 

The  fatal  morning  arrived  at  last.  Inglesant  had  passed  a 
sleepless  night ;  he  had  not  the  slightest  fear  of  death,  but 
excitement  made  sleep  impossible.  He  thought  often  of  his 
brother,  but  he  had  learned  that  he  was  in  Paris  alone ;  and 
even  had  he  been  in  England,  he  felt  no  especial  desire  to  see 
him  under  circumstances  which  could  only  have  been  intensely 
painful.  Mary  Collet  he  thought  of  night  and  day,  but  he  knew 
it  was  impossible  to  obtain  permission  to  see  her,  and  he  was 
tired  of  fruitless  requests.  He  was  tired  and  wearied  of  life, 
and  only  wished  the  excitement  and  strain  over,  that  he  might 
be  at  rest.  It  struck  him  that  the  greatest  harshness  was  used 
towards  him ;  liis  food  was  very  poor  and  of  the  sumllest 
quantity,  and  no  one  was  admitted  to  him ;  but  he  did  not 
wonder  at  this,  knowing  that  his  case  differed  from  any  other 
Loyalist  prisoner. 

At  about  eight  o'clock  on  the  appointed  morning,  the  same 
officer  who  had  conducted  him  before  entered  his  room  with  the 
lieutenant  of  the  Tower,  bringing  the  warrant  for  his  death. 
The  lieutenant  parted  from  him  in  a  careless  and  indifferent 
way.  They  went  by  water  and  landed  by  York  Stairs,  and 
proceeded  by  back  ways  to  a  house  nearly  adjoining  Northum- 
berland House,  facing  the  wide  street  about  Charing  Cross. 
From  one  of  the  first  floor  windows  a  staircase  had  been  con- 
trived, leading  up  to  a  high  scaffold  or  platform  on  which  the 
block  was  fixed.  Inglesant  had  not  known  till  that  morning 
whether  he  was  to  be  hanged  or  beheaded;  like  every  other 
thought,  save  one,  it  was  indifferent  to  him — that  one,  how  he 
should  keep  his  secret  to  the  last.  In  the  room  of  this  house 
opening  on  the  scaffold,  he  found  Colonel  Eustace  Powell,  whom 
he  had  met  at  Essex  House,  who  was  to  precede  him  to  death. 
He  greeted  Inglesant  with  great  kindness,  but,  as  Johnny 
thought,  with,  some  reserve.  He  was  a  very  pious  man,  strongly 
attached  to  the  Protestant  party  in  the  Church  of  England,  and 
he  had  passed  the  last  three  days  entirely  in  the  company  of 

Dr.  S ,  who  was  then  in  the  room  with  him,  engaged  in 

religious  exercises,  and  his  piety  and  resignation  had  attached 
the  Doctor  to  hira  very  much.     The  Doctor  now  proceeded  to 


160  JOHN  inglesant;  [chap.  XIV. 

ask  the  Colonel,  before  Inglesant  and  the  others,  a  series  of 
questions,  in  order  that  he  should  give  some  account  of  his 
religion,  and  of  his  faith,  charity,  and  repentance,  to  all  of  whici 
he  answered  fully ;  that  he  acknowledged  his  death  to  be  a  just 
punishment  of  God  for  his  former  sins  ;  that  he  acknowledged 
that  his  just  due  was  eternal  punishment,  from  which  he  only 
expected  to  escape  through  the  satisfaction  made  by  Christ,  by 
which  Mediator,  and  none  other,  he  hoped  to  be  saved.  The 
Doctor  then  asking  him  if,  by  a  miracle  (not  to  put  him  in  vain 
hope),  God  should  save  him  that  day,  what  life  he  would  resolve 
to  lead  hereafter  1  he  repHed,  "  It  is  a  question  of  great  length, 
and  requires  a  great  time  to  answer.  Men  in  such  straits  would 
promise  great  things,  but  a  vow  I  would  make,  and  by  God's 
help  endeavour  to  keep  it,  though  I  would  first  call  some  friend 
to  limit  how  far  I  should  make  a  vow,  that  I  might  not  make  a 
rash  one,  and  offer  the  sacrifice  of  fools." 

In  answer  to  other  questions  he  said, — "  He  wished  well  to 
all  lawful  governments ;  that  he  did  not  justify  himself  in  having 
ventured  against  the  existing  one;  he  left  God  to  judge  it 
whether  it  be  righteous,  and  if  it  be,  it  must  stand.  He  desired 
to  make  reparation  to  any  he  had  injured,  and  he  forgave  his 
enemies." 

The  Doctor  then  addressed  him  at  length,  saying, — 

*'  Sir,  I  shall  trouble  you  very  little  farther.  I  thank  you 
for  all  those  heavenly  colloquies  I  have  enjoyed  by  being  in  your 
company  these  three  days,  and  truly  I  am  sorry  I  must  part 
with  so  heavenly  an  associate.  We  have  known  one  another 
heretofore,  but  never  so  Christianlike  before.  I  have  rather 
been  a  scholar  to  learn  from  you  than  an  instructor.  I  wish 
this  stage,  wherein  you  are  made  a  spectacle  to  God,  angels, 
and  the  world,  may  be  a  school  to  all  about  you ;  for  though  I 
will  not  diminish  your  sins,  yet  I  think  there  are  few  here  have 
a  lighter  load  upon  them  than  you  have,  and  I  only  wish  them 
yom*  repentance,  and  that  measure  of  faith  that  God  hath  given 
you,  and  that  measure  of  courage  you  have  attained  from 
God." 

The  Colonel,  having  wished  all  who  were  present  in  the 
room  farewell,  went  up  on  the  scaffold  accompanied  by  the 
Divine.  The  scaffold  was  so  near  that  Inglesant  and  the  officers 
and  the  guards,  who  stood  at  the  window  screened  from  the 
sight  of  the  people,  could  hear  every  word  that  passed.     They 


CHAP.  XIV.]  A  ROMANCE.  161 

understood  that  the  whole  open  place  was  densely  crowded,  but 
they  could  scarcely  believe  it,  the  silence  w^as  so  profound. 

Colonel  Powell  made  a  speech  of  some  length,  clearing 
himself  of  Popery  in  earnest  language,  not  blaming  his  judges, 
but  throwing  the  guilt  on  false  witnesses,  whom,  however,  he 
forgave.  He  bore  no  malice  to  the  present  Government,  nor 
pretended  to  decide  controyersies,  and  spoke  touchingly  of  the 
sadness  and  gloom  of  violent  death,  and  how  mercifully  he  was 
dealt  with  in  being  able  to  face  it  with  a  quiet  mind.  He 
finally  thanked  the  authorities  for  their  coiurtesy  in  granting 
him  the  death  of  the  axe — a  death  somewhat  worthy  of  his 
blood,  answerable  to  his  birth  and  quahfication — which  courtesy 
had  much  helped  towards  the  pacification  of  his  mind. 

Inglesant  supposed  the  end  was  now  come,  but  to  his 
surprise  the  Doctor  again  stepped  forward,  and  before  all  the 
people  repeated  the  whole  former  questions,  to  each  of  which 
the  Colonel  replied  in  nearly  the  same  words. 

Then  stepping  forward  again  to  the  front  of  the  scaffold, 
the  Colonel  said,  speaking  to  the  people  in  a  calm  and  tender 
voice, — 

"  There  is  not  one  face  that  looks  upon  me,  though  many 
faces,  and  perhaps  difi'erent  from  me  in  opinion  and  practice,  but 
methinks  hath  something  of  pity  in  it;  and  may  that  mercy 
which  is  in  yoiu:  hearts  now  be  meted  to  you  when  you  have 
need  of  it !     I  beseech  you  join  with  me  in  prayer." 

The  completest  silence  prevailed,  broken  only  by  a  faint 
sobbing  and  whispering  sound  from  the  excited  and  pitying 
crowd.  Colonel  Powell  prayed  for  a  quarter  of  an  hoiu:  with 
an  audible  voice ;  then  taking  leave  again  of  his  friends  and 
directing  the  executioner  when  to  strike,  he  knelt  down  to  the 
block,  and  repeating  the  words,  "  Lord  Jesus,  receive  me,"  his 
head  was  smitten  ofi"  with  a  blow. 

A  long  deep  groan,  followed  by  an  intense  silence,  ran 
through  the  crowd.  The  oflS.cer  who  accompanied  Inglesant 
looked  at  him  with  a  peculiar  expression ;  and,  bowing  in  return, 
Inglesant  passed  through  the  window,  and  as  he  mounted  the 
steps  and  his  eyes  came  to  the  level  of,  and  then  rose  higher 
than  the  interposing  scaff'old,  he  saw  the  dense  crowd  of  heads 
stretching  far  away  on  every  hand,  the  house  windows  and  roofs 
crowded  on  every  side.  He  scarcely  saw  it  before  he  almost 
lost  the  sight  again.     A  wild  motion  that  shook  the  crowd,  a 

M 


162  JOHN  INGLES  ant;  [chap.  xiv. 

roar  that  filled  tlie  air  and  stunned  the  sense,  a  yell  of  indigna- 
tion, contemiDt,  hatred,  hands  shook  and  clutched  at  him,  wild 
faces  leaping  up  and  staring  at  him,  cries  of  "  Tlirow  him  over  !" 
"Give  over  the  Jesuit  to  us!"  "Throw  over  the  Irish  mur- 
derer ! "  made  his  senses  reel  for  a  moment,  and  his  heart  stop. 
It  was  inconceivable  that  a  crowd,  the  instant  before  placid, 
pitiful,  silent,  should  in  a  moment  become  like  that,  deafening, 
mad,  thirsting  for  blood.  The  amazing  surprise  and  reaction 
produced  the  greatest  shock.  Hardening  himself  in  a  moment, 
he  faced  the  people,  his  hat  in  his  hand,  his  pale  face  hard  set, 
his  teeth  closed.  Once  or  twice  he  tried  to  speak ;  it  would 
have  been  as  easy  to  drown  the  Atlantic's  roar.  As  he  stood, 
apparently  calm,  this  terrible  ordeal  had  the  worst  possible 
effect  upon  his  mind.  Other  men  came  to  the  scaffold  calm  in 
mind,  prepared  by  holy  thoughts,  and  the  sacred,  tender  services 
of  the  Church  of  their  Lord,  feeling  His  hand  indeed  in  theirs. 
They  spoke,  amid  silence  and  solemn  prayers,  to  a  pitying 
people,  the  name  of  Jesus  on  their  lips,  the  old  familiar  words 
whispered  in  their  ears,  good  wishes,  deference,  respect  all 
around,  their  path  seemed  smooth  and  upward  to  the  heavenly 
gates.  But  with  him — how  different !  Denied  the  aid  of 
prayer  and  sacrament,  alone,  overwhelmed  with  contempt  and 
hatred,  deafened  with  the  fiendish  noise  which  racked  his  excited 
and  overwrought  brain.  He  was  indifferent  before ;  he  became 
hardened,  fierce,  contemptuous  now.  Hated,  he  hated  again. 
All  the  worst  spirit  of  his  party  and  of  his  age  became  ui)per- 
most.  He  felt  as  though  engaged  in  a  mad  duel  with  a 
despised  yet  too  powerful  foe.  He  turned  at  last  to  the  officer, 
and  said,  his  voice  scarcely  heard  amid  the  unceasing  roar, — 

"You  see,  sir,  I  cannot  speak;  do  not  'let  us  delay  any 
longer." 

The  officer  hesitated,  and  glanced  at  another  gentleman, 
evidently  a  Parliament  man,  who  advanced  to  Inglesant,  and 
offered  him  a  paper,  the  purport  of  which  he  knew  by  this  time 
too  well. 

He  told  him  in  his  ear  that  even  now  he  should  be  set  at 
liberty  if  he  woidd  sign  the  true  evidence,  and  not  rush  upon 
his  fate  and  lose  his  soul.  He  repeated  that  the  Parliament 
knew  he  was  not  guilty,  and  had  no  wish  to  put  him  to  death, 

Inglesant  saw  the  natural  rejoinder,  but  did  not  think  it 
worth  his  while  to  make  it.      Only  get  this  thing  over,  and 


CHAP.  XIV.]  A  ROIVIANCE.  163 

escape  from  this  maddening  cry,  tearing  his  brain  with  its 
terrible  roar,  to  something  quieter  at  any  rate. 

He  rejected  the  paper,  and  turning  to  the  officer  he  said, 
"with  a  motion  towards  the  people  of  inexpressible  disdain, — 

"  These  good  people  are  impatient  for  the  final  act,  sir ;  do 
not  let  us  keep  them  any  longer." 

The  officer  still  hesitated,  and  looked  at  the  Parliament 
man,  who  shook  his  head,  and  immediately  left  the  scaffold. 
The  officer  then  leaned  on  the  "rail,  and  spoke  to  his  lieutenant 
in  the  open  space  round  the  scaffold  within  the  barriers.  The 
latter  gave  a  word  of  command,  and  the  soldiers  fell  out  of  their 
rank  so  as  to  mingle  with  the  crowd.  As  soon  as  the  officer 
saw  this  manoeuvre  completed,  he  took  Inglesant's  arm,  and 
said  hm-riedly, — "  Come  with  me  to  the  house,  and  be  quick." 
Not  knowing  what  he  did,  Inglesant  followed  him  hastily  into 
the  room.  They  had  need  to  be  quick.  A  yell,  to  which  the 
noise  preceding  it  was  as  nothing — terrible  as  it  had  been,  a 
shower  of  stones,  smashing  every  pane  of  glass,  and  falUng  in 
heaps  at  their  feet, — showed  the  fury  of  a  maddened,  injured 
people,  robbed  of  their  expected  prey. 

The  officer  looked  at  Inglesant,  and  laughed. 

"I  thought  there  would  be  a  tumult,"  he  said  ;  "we  are 
noc  safe  here ;  the  troops  will  not  ojopose  them,  and  they  will 
break  down  the  doors.     Come  with  me." 

He  led  Inglesant,  still  almost  unconscious,  through  the  back 
entries  and  yards,  the  roar  of  the  people  stiU  in  their  ears,  till 
they  reached  a  stair  leading  to  the  river,  where  was  a  wherry 
and  two  or  three  guards.  The  officer  stepped  in  after  Inglesant, 
crying,  "Pidl  away!  The  Tower!"  then,  leaning  back,  and 
looking  at  Inglesant,  he  said, — 

"  You  stood  that  very  well.  I  would  rather  mount  the 
deadliest  breach  than  face  such  a  sight  as  that." 

Inglesant  asked  him  if  he  knaw  what  this  extraordinary 
change  of  intention  meant. 

To  which  he  replied, — 

"  No ;  I  acted  to  orders.  Probably  you  are  of  more  use  to 
the  Parliament  alive  than  dead;  besides,  I  fancy  you  have 
friends.     I  should  think  you  are  safe  now." 

That  afternoon,  a  r:!port  spread  through  London  that  Ingle- 
sant, the  King's  servant,  had  confessed  all  that  was  required  of 
him  upon  the  scaffold,  and  had  his  life  given  him  in  retm'u. 


164  JOHN  inglesant;  [chap,  xiv 

This  report  was  Relieved  mostly  by  the  lower  orders,  especially 
those  who  had  been  before  the  scaffold ;  but  few  of  the  upper 
classes  credited  it,  and  even  these  only  did  so  for  a  day  or  two. 
The  Parliament  made  no  further  effort ;  and  Inglesant  was  left 
quietly  in  prison. 

This  happened  on  the  19th  of  December,  and  on  the  20th 
of  January  the  King's  trial  began.  That  could  scarcely  be 
called  a  trial  which  consisted  entirely  in  a  struggle  between  the 
King  and  the  Court  on  a  point  of  law.  In  the  charge  of  high 
treason,  read  in  Westminster  Hall  against  the  King,  special 
mention  was  made  of  the  commission  which  he  "doth  still 
continue  to  the  Earl  of  Ormond,  and  to  the  Irish  rebels  and 
revolters  associated  with  him,  from  whom  further  invasions 
upon  the  land  are  threatened."  There  appear  to  have  been  no 
witnesses  examined  on  this  point,  aU  that  were  examined  during 
three  days,  in  the  painted  chamber,  simply  witnessing  to  having 
seen  the  King  in  arms.  Indeed,  all  witnesses  were  unnecessary, 
the  sentence  having  been  already  determined  upon,  and  the 
King  utterly  refusing  to  plead  or  to  acknowledge  the  Court. 
The  King,  indeed,  never  appeared  to  such  advantage  as  on  his 
trial ;  he  was  perfectly  unmoved  by  any  personal  thought ;  no 
fear,  hesitation,  or  wavering  appeared  in  his  behaviour.  He 
took  his  stand  simply  on  the  indisputable  point  of  law  that 
neither  that  Com't,  nor  indeed  any  Court  had  any  authority  to 
try  him.  To  Bradshaw's  assertion  that  he  derived  his  authority 
from  the  people,  he  in  vain  requested  a  single  precedent  that 
the  Monarchy  of  England  was  elective,  or  had  been  elective, 
for  a  thousand  years.  In  his  abandonment  of  self,  and  his 
unshaken  constancy  to  a  point  of  principle,  he  contrasted  most 
favourably  with  his  judges,  whose  sole  motive  was  self.  That 
none  of  the  Parliamentary  leaders  were  safe  while  the  King 
lived  is  probable  ;  but  sound  statesmanship  does  not  acknow- 
ledge self-preservation  as  an  excuse  for  mistaken  polic}'-,  and  the 
murder  of  the  King  was  not  more  a  crime  than  it  was  a  blunder. 
Having  been  condemned  by  this  unique  Court,  he  was,  with 
the  most  indecent  haste,  hurried  to  his  end.-  A  revolting 
coarseness  marks  every  detail  of  the  tragic  story;  the  flower 
of  England  on  either  side  was  beneath  the  turf  or  beyond  the 
sea,  and  the  management  of  affairs  was  left  in  the  hands  of 
butchers  and  brewers.  Ranting  sermons,  three  in  succession, 
before  a  brewer  in  Whitehall,  are  the  mediimi  to  which  the 


CHAP.  XIV.]  A  ROMANCE.  165 

religious  utterance  of  England  is  reduced,  and  Ireton  and 
Harrison  in  bed  together,  with  Cromwell  and  others  in  the 
room,  signed  the  warrant  for  the  fatal  act.  The  hon'or  and 
indig-nation  which  it  impressed  on  the  heart  of  the  people  may 
be  understood  a  little  by  the  fact,  that  in  no  country  so  much 
asjii  England  the  peculiar  sacredness  of  Monarchy  bas  since 
been  carried  so  fax.  The  impression  caused  by  his  death  was 
so  profound,  that,  forty  years  afterwards,  when  his  son  was  Jam^^tT 
arrested  in  his  flight,  the  only  thing  that  during  the  whole 
course  of  that  revolution  caused  the  least  reaction  in  his  favour 
was  (according  to  the  Whig  Burnet)  the  fear  that  the  people 
conceived  that  the  same  thing  was  going  to  be  acted  over  again, 
and  men  remembered  that  saying  of  King  Charles — "The 
prisons  of  princes  are  not  far  from  their  graves."  He  walked 
across  the  Park  from  the  garden  at  St.  James's  that  January 
morning  with  so  firm  and  quick  a  pace  that  the  guards  could 
scarcely  keep  the  step,  and  stepping  from  his  own  banqueting- 
house  upon  the  scaffold,  where  the  men  who  ruled  England 
so  little  understood  him  as  to  provide  ropes  and  pulleys  to  drag 
him  down  in  case  of  need,  he  died  with  that  calm  and  kingly 
bearing  which  none  could  assume  so  well  as  he,  and  by  his 
death  he  cast  a  halo  of  religious  sentiment  round  a  cause  wliich, 
without  the  final  act,  would  have  wanted  much  of  its  pathetic 
charm,  and  struck  that  key-note  of  religious  devotion  to  his 
person  and  the  Monarchy  which  has  not  yet  ceased  to  rever- 
berate ill  '.he  hearts  of  men. 

"  That  thence  the  royal  actor  borne 
The  tragic  scaffold  might  adorn, 

While  roi'nd  the  armed  bands 

Did  chap  their  bloody  hands  :  V  C»        V 

He  nothing  common  did,  nor  mean,      ^  \?T**^  , 
Upon  that  memorable  scene  ; 

But  with  his  keener  eye 

The  axe's  edge  did  try  ; 
Nor  called  the  gods  with  vulgar  spite 
To  vindicate  bis  helpless  right, 

But  bowed  his  comely  head 

Down,  as  upon  a  bed." 

Tlie  Ee;publican,  Andrew  MarteR. 


166  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap.  XV. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Inglesant  remained  in  the  Tower  for  several  months  after  the 
King's  death.  The  Lords  Hamilton,  Holland,  and  Capel  were 
the  first  who  followed  their  royal  master  to  the  block,  and  many- 
other  names  of  equal  honour  and  little  inferior  rank  followed  in 
the  same  list.  In  excuse  for  the  murders  of  these  men  there  is 
no  other  jDlea  than,  as  in  the  case  of  their  master — self-preserva- 
tion. But  the  pm-pose  was  not  less  abortive  than  the  means 
were  criminal.  The  effect  produced  on  the  country  was  one  of 
awe  and  hatred  to  the  ruling  powers.  Thousands  of  copies  of 
the  King's  Book,  edged  with  black,  were  sold  in  London  within 
the  few  days  following  his  death,  and  Milton  was  obliged  to 
remonstrate  pitifully  with  the  people  for  their  unaccountable 
attachment  to  their  King.  The  country,  it  is  true,  was  for  the 
moment  cowed,  and,  although  individual  gentlemen  took  every 
opportunity  to  rise  against  the  usurpers,  and  suffered  death 
willingly  in  such  a  cause,  the  mass  of  the  people  remained 
quiet.  The  country  gentlemen  indeed  were,  as  a  body,  ruined ; 
the  head  of  nearly  every  family  was  slain,  and  the  widows  and 
minors  had  enough  to  do  to  arrange,  as  best  they  might,  with 
the  Government  agents  who  assessed  the  fines  and  compositions 
upon  malignants'  estates.  It  required  a  few  years  to  elapse 
before  England  would  recover  itself,  and  declare  its  real  mind 
unmistakably,  which  it  very  soon  did ;  but  during  those  years 
it  never  sank  into  silent  acquiescence  to  the  great  wrong  that 
had  been  perpetrated.  It  is  the  custom  to  regard  the  Common- 
wealth as  a  period  of  great  national  prosperity  and  peace. 
Nothing  can  be  a  greater  mistake.  There  never  was  a  moment's 
peace  dm-ing  the  whole  of  Cromwell's  reign  of  power.  He  began 
by  destroying  that  ParKament  utterly,  for  seeking  the  arrest  of 
five  members  of  which  the  King  lost  his  crown  and  was  put  to 
death.  The  best  of  the  Eepublican  party  were  kept  in  prison 
or  exiled,  just  as  the  King  had  been  seized  and  executed  by 
Cromwell,  independently  of  the  Parliament.  But  the  oppressed 
sections  of  the  Puritan  party  never  ceased  to  hate  the  usurper 
as  much  as  the  Royalists  did,  and  the  want  of  their  support 
insured  the  fall  of  the  Repubhc  the  moment  the  master  hand 
was  withdi'awn. 


CHAP.  XV.]  A  ROMANCE.  167 

After  a  few  months  Inglesant's  imprisonment  was  much 
lighter ;  he  -was  allowed  abmidance  of  food,  and  liberty  to  walk 
in  the  courtyards  of  the  Tower,  and  was  allowed  to  purchase 
any  books  he  chose.  He  had  received  a  sum  of  money  from  an 
unknown  hand,  which  he  afterwards  found  to  have  been  that  of 
Lady  Cardiff,  his  brother's  wife,  and  this  enabled  him  to  pur- 
chase several  books  and  other  conveniences.  He  remained  in 
prison  under  these  altered  circumstances  imtil  the  end  of  January 
1650,  when,  one  morning,  his  door  opened,  and  without  any 
announcement  his  brother  was  admitted  to  see  him.  Eustace 
was  much  altered  :  he  was  richly  dressed,  entirely  in  the  French 
mode,  his  manner  and  appearance  were  altogether  those  of  a 
favoiu-ite  of  the  French  Court,  and  he  spoke  English  with  a 
foreign  accent.  He  greeted  his  brother  with  great  warmth,  and 
it  need  not  be  said  that  Johnny  was  delighted  to  see  him. 

Eustace  told  his  brother  at  once  that  he  was  free,  and 
showed  him  the  warrant  for  his  liberation. 

"I  was  in  Paris,"  he  said,  "on  the  eve  of  starting  for 
England  on  affairs  which  I  will  explain  to  you  in  a  moment, 
when  '  votre  ami '  the  Jesuit  came  to  see  me.  He  told  me  he 
understood  I  was  going  to  England  on  my  private  affairs,  but 
he  thought  possible  I  might  not  object  to  do  a  little  service  for 
my  brother ; — you  know  his  manner.  He  said  if  I  would  apply 
in  certain  quarters,  which  he  named  to  me,  I  should  find  the 
way  prepared,  and  no  difl&culties  in  obtaining  your  release.  The 
words  were  true,  and  yesterday  I  received  this  warrant.  As 
soon  as  it  is  convenient  to  you  I  shall  be  glad  for  you  to  leave 
this  sonil^re  place,  as  I  want  you  to  come  with  me  to  Oulton, 
to  my  wife>*— my  wife,  who  is  indeed  so  perfectly  English  in  all 
her  manners,  as  I  shall  proceed  to  explain  to  you.  Since  you 
were  at  Oulton  my  wife  has  been  growing  worse  and  worse  in 
health,  and  more  and  more  eccentric  and  crotchety ;  every  new 
remedy  and  every  fresh  religious  notion  she  adopts  at  once.  She 
has  filled  the  house  with  quacks,  of  whom  Van  Helmont  is  chief, 
moimtebanks,  astrologers,  and  physicians, — a  fine  collection  of 
beaux-esprits.  The  last  time  I  was  there  I  could  not  see  her 
once,  though  I  stayed  a  fortnight;  she  was  in  great  misery, 
extremely  ill,  and  said  she  was  near  her  last.  Since  I  have 
been  in  Paris  I  have  been  obliged  to  give  up  many  of  my  suppers 
with  the  French  King  and  Lords,  from  her  letters  saying  she 
was  at  the  point  of  death.     She  is  ill  at  present,  and  no  one  haa 


168  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [chap.  XV. 

seen  her  these  ten  days ;  but  I  suppose  it  is  much  after  the  same 
sort ;  and  she  sends  me  word  that  Van  Helmont  has  promised 
that  she  shall  not  be  buried,  but  preserved  by  his  art  till  I  can 
come  and  see  her.  To  crown  all,  she  has  lately  become  a  Quaker, 
and  in  my  family  all  the  women  about  my  wife,  and  most  of  the 
rest,  are  Quakers,  and  Mons.  Van  Helmont  is  governor  of  that 
flock, — an  unpleasing  sort  of  people,  silent,  sullen,  and  of  reserved 
conversation,  though  I  hear  one  of  the  maids  is  the  prettiest  girl 
in  all  the  county.  These  and  all  that  society  have  free  access 
to  my  wife,  but  I  believe  Dr.  More,  the  Platonist,  who  is  a 
scholar  and  gentleman,  if  an  enthusiast,  though  he  was  in  the 
house  all  last  summer,  did  not  see  her  above  once  or  twice.  She 
has  been  urging  me  for  months  to  search  all  over  Europe  for  an 
eagle's  stone,  which  she  says  is  of  great  use  in  such  diseases  as 
hers ;  and  when  I,  at  great  laboiu-  and  expense,  found  her  one, 
she  sends  back  word  that  it  is  not  one,  but  that  some  of  her 
quacks  were  able  to  decipher  it  at  once,  and  that  it  is  a  German 
stone,  such  as  are  commonly  sold  in  London  at  five  shillings 
apiece.  I  have  grown  learned  in  these  stones,  by  which  the 
fairies  in  our  grandfather's  time  used  to  preserve  the  fruits  from 
hail  and  storms.  There  is  a  salamander  stone  This  eagle 
stone  is  one  made  after  a  cabalistic  art  and  under  certain  stars, 
and  engraved  with  the  sign  of  an  eagle.  I  CQuld  prove  their 
vii'tue  to  you,"  he  continued,  laughing,  "throughout  all  arts  and 
sciences,  as  Divinity,  Philosophy,  Physic,  Astrology,  Physiog- 
nomy, Divination  of  Dreams,  Painting,  Sculpture,  Music,  and 
what  not.  This  affair  of  the  stone,  and  these  reports  of  sickness 
and  death,  however,  and  doleful  stories  of  coffins  prepared  by 
art,  and  of  open  graves,  would  not  have  brought  me  over,  but 
for  another  circiunstance  of  much  greater  moment.  When  I 
was  in  Italy  and  staying  some  time  at  Venice,  and  was  desirous 
of  engaging  in  some  of  the  intrigues  and  amusements  of  the  city, 
I  was  recommended  to  an  Itahan,  a  young  man,  who  made  him- 
self useful  to  several  of  the  nobility,  as  a  man  who  could  intro- 
duce me  to,  and  show  me  more  of  that  kind  of  pleasure,  than 
any  one  else.  I  found  him  all  that  had  been  represented  to  me, 
and  a  great  deal  more,  for,  not  to  tell  you  too  long  a  story,  he 
was  an  adept  at  every  sort  of  intrigue,  and  was  acquainted  at 
any  rate  with  every  species  of  villany  and  vice  that  the  Italians 
have  conceived.  The  extent  to  which  they  carry  these  tastes 
^  theirs  cannot  be  des(Tibed,  and  from  them  the  wildest  of  the 


CHAP.  XV.]  A  ROMANCE.  169 

gallants  of  the  rest  of  Europe  start  back  amazed.  To  cut  this 
short,  I  was  very  deeply  engaged  to  him,  and  in  return  I  held 
some  secrets  of  his,  which  he  would  not  even  now  have  known. 
At  last,  upon  some  villainous  proposal  made  by  him,  I  drew  upon 
him.  We  had  been  dining  at  one  of  the  Casinos  in  St,  Mark's 
Place,  and  I  would  have  run  him  through  the  body,  but  the 
crowd  of  mountebanks,  charlatans,  and  such  stuff,  interposed  and 
saved  him.  I  have  often  wished  since  I  had.  He  threatened 
me  highl}'",  but  as  I  was  a  foreigner  and  acquainted  mth  most  of 
the  principal  nobles,  he  could  do  me  no  harm.  He  endeavoured 
to  have  me  assassinated  more  than  once,  and  one  Englishman 
was  set  upon  and  desperately  wounded  in  mistake  for  me ;  but 
by  advice  I  hired  bravoes  myself  who  baffled  his  plots,  for  I  had 
the  longest  piurse.  I  knew  nothing  of  him  afterwards  until  I 
heard  that  he  had  left  Italy,  a  ruined  and  desperate  man,  whose 
life  was  sought  by  itiany ;  and  the  next  thing  I  heard,  not  many 
weeks  ago,  was  that  he  was  at  Oulton,  having  gained  admission 
to  my  wife  as  a  foreign  physician  who  had  some  especial  know- 
ledge of  her  disease.  She  fancies  herself  much  the  better  for 
his  nostrums,  and  gives  herself  entirely  to  his  directions,  and  I 
believe  he  professes  Quakerism,  or  some  sort  of  foreign  mysticism 
allied  to  it,  which  has  established  him  with  the  rest  of  her  con- 
fidants. I  no  sooner  heard  this  pleasing  information  than  I 
resolved  to  come  over  to  England  at  once,  and  at  least  drive 
away  this  villain  from  my  family,  even  if  I  had  no  other  way 
to  do  it  than  by  running  him  through  the  body,  as  I  might  have 
done  in  Italy.  I,  however,  sent  a  messenger  to  my  wife  to  in- 
form her  that  I  was  coming,  and  on  my  reaching  London  a  few 
days  ago,  I  found  him  waiting  for  me  with  a  packet  from  Oulton. 
In  a  letter  my  wife  desires  me  earnestly  not  to  come  to  Oulton  to 
see  her,  as  she  is  assured  by  good  hands  that  some  imminent 
danger  awaits  me  if  I  do,  and  she  encloses  this  horoscope,  which 
no  doubt  one  of  her  astrologers  has  prepared  for  her.  Now  I 
have  no  doubt  the  Italian  is  at  the  bottom  of  ail  this,  and  that, 
at  his  instigation,  the  horoscope  has  been  drawn  out ;  yet  I  con- 
fess that  it  appears  to  me  to  have  something  about  it  that  looks 
like  the  truth,  something  beyond  what  would  be  written  at  the 
instigation  of  a/i  enemy.  You  can  read  it  and  judge  for  yourself. 
I  have  dabbled  a  little  in  astrology  as  in  other  arts.-" 

John  Inglesant  took  the  paper  from  his  brother  and  examined 
it  carefully.     At  the  top  was  an  astrological  scheme,  or  drawing 


170  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap.  XV. 

of  the  heavens,  taken  at  some  moment  vt^hen  the  intention  of 
Eustace  to  come  to  Oultou  had  first  become  known  to  his  wifa 
Beneath  was  the  judgment  of  the  adept,  in  the  following 
words  : — 

"  Saturn,  the  significator  of  the  quesited,  being  in  conjunction 
with  Venus,  I  judge  him  to  have  gained  by  ladies  to  a  consider- 
able extent,  to  be  much  attached  to  them,  gi^eatly  addicted  to 
pleasure,  and  very  fortunate  where  females  are  concerned,  and 
to  be  a  man  of  property.  The  significator  being  affected  both 
by  Mercury,  lord  of  the  eighth  in  the  figure,  and  also  by  Mars,  the 
lord  of  the  quesited's  eighth  house,  and  the  aspect  of  separation 
of  the  moon  being  bad, — namely,  conjunction  of  Jupiter  and 
square  of  Mercury,  who  is  ill  aspected  to  Jupiter,  and  is  going 
to  a  square  of  the  sun  on  the  cusp  of  the  mid-heaven, — I  judge 
that  the  quesited  is  in  imminent  danger  of  death  ;  and  the  lord 
of  the  third  house  being  in  the  eighth,  and  the  significator  being 
comblist,  in  conjunction  with  the  lord  of  the  eighth,  and  the 
hyleg  afflicted  by  the  evil  planets,  makes  it  more  certain.  His 
significator  being  in  the  eleventh  house  denotes  that  at  the  pre- 
sent time  he  is  well  situated  and  with  some  near  friend  (I  should 
judge,  as  he'  is  well  aspected  with  the  moon,  the  lady  of'  the 
third  house,  a  brother),  and  happy.  Mars  being  in  the  ascend- 
ant, and  the  cusp  of  the  first  house  wanting  only  three  degrees 
of  the  place  of  the  evil  planet  in  a  common  sign,  I  judge  the 
time  of  death  to  occur  in  three  weeks'  time,  and  that  it  will  be 
caused  by  a  sword  or  dagger  wound,  by  which  Mars  kills.  The 
danger  lies  to  the  south-west — south,  because  the  quarter  of  the 
heaven  where  the  lord  of  the  ascendant  is,  is  south — west,  be- 
cause the  sign  where  he  is,  is  west." 

John  Inglesant  read  this  paper  two  or  three  times,  and  re- 
turned it  to  his  brother  with  a  smile.  "  I  should  not  be  greatly 
alarmed  at  it,"  said  he  :  "  that  is  not  a  true  horoscope,  or  rather 
it  is  a  true  horoscope  tampered  with.  The  man  who  erected  the 
scheme,  I  should  say,  was  an  honest  man,  though  not  a  very  clever 
astrologer.  It  has,  however,  as  most  schemes  have,  a  glimmer- 
ing of  a  truth  not  otherwise  known  (you  and  I  being  together, 
which  no  one  at  Oulton  could  have  thought  of,  though  you  see 
he  was  wrong  as  to  the  time) ;  but  some  other  hand  has  been  at 
■work  upon  the  judgment,  and  a  very  unskilful  one.  It  contra- 
dicts itself.  What  is  most  important,  however,  is  that  the  artist 
has  no  ground  to  take  Saturn  for  your  significator,  which  should 


CHAP.  XV.]  A  ROMANCE.  171 

be  either  the  lord  of  the  third  house,  the  cusp  of  the  third,  or 
the  planets  therein,  neither  of  which  Saturn  is.  Besides,  he 
takes  the  place  of  Fortune  to  be  hyleg,  for  which  he  has  no 
ground.  He  has  taken  Saturn  as  significator,  as  suiting  what 
he  knows  of  your  character,  and  I  think  there  is  no  doubt  the 
Italian's  hand  is  in  this.  Now  I  sliould  rather  say  that  Venus, 
the  lady  of  the  thu'd,  being  significator,  and  applying  to  a 
friendly  trine  of  Jupiter,  lord  of  the  ascendant,  and  Saturn  being 
retrograde,  and  Venus  also  casting  a  sextile  to  the  cusp  of  the 
ascendant  is  a  very  good  argTiment  that  the  querent  should  see 
the  quesited  speedily,  and  that  in  perfect  health.  I  woidd  have 
you  think  no  more  of  this  rubbisli,  with  which  a  wicked  man 
has  tried  to  make  the  heavens  themselves  speak  falsely." 

"  I  did  not  know  you  were  so  good  an  astrologer,  Johnny," 
said  his  brother. 

"Father  St.  Clare  taught  it  me,  among  other  things,"  said 
Inglesant ;  "  and  I  have  seen  many  strange  answers  that  he  has 
known  himself;  but  it  is  shameful  that  the  science  should  be 
made  a  tool  of  by  designing  men." 

Eustace  retiu-ued  the  papers  to  his  pockets,  and  requested 
his  brother  again  to  prepare  to  leave  the  Tower  at  once.  After 
taking  leave  of  the  Lieutenant,  and  feeing  the  warders,  the  two 
brothers  departed  in  a  coach  in  which  Eustace  had  come  to  the 
Tower,  and  went  to  the  lodgings  of  the  latter  in  Holborn. 
Eustace  fiu-nished  his  brother  with  clothes  until  he  could  pro- 
cure some  for  himself,  and  gave  him  money  liberally,  of  which 
he  seemed  to  have  no  stint.  He  wished  his  brother  to  come 
with  him  to  all  the  places  of  resort  in  the  city,  but  Johnny 
prudently  declined.  Indeed,  the  city  was  so  quiet  and  dull, 
that  few  places  of  amusement  remained.  The  theatres  were 
entii'ely  closed.  Whitehall  was  sombre  and  nearly  empty,  and 
the  public  walks  were  filled  only  with  the  townspeople  in  staid 
and  sober  attire.  The  two  brothers  were  therefore  reduced  to 
each  other's  society,  and  it  seemed  as  though  absence  or  a  sense 
of  danger  united  them  with  a  warmth  of  affection  which  they 
had  seldom  before  known. 

To  John  Inglesant,  who  had  always  been  devotedly  attached 
to  his  brother,  this  display  of  affection  was  delightful,  cut  off 
as  he  had  been  so  long  from  all  sympathy  and  friendliness. 
Dressed  in  his  brother's  clothes,  the  likeness  which  had  once 
been  so  striking  returned  again,  and  as  they  walked  the  streets 


172  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [chap.  XV. 

people  turned  to  look  at  them  with  sm  prise.  The  brothers  felt 
in  their  hearts  old  feehngs  and  thoughts  retimiing,  which  had 
long  been  forgotten  and  had  passed  away  ;  and  to  John  Inglesant 
especially,  always  given  to  half  melancholy  musings  and  brood- 
ing over  the  past,  all  his  happiest  recollections  seemed  to  con- 
centrate themselves  on  his  brother,  the  last  human  relation  that 
seemed  left  to  him,  since  he  had,  as  he  thought,  lost  the  favour 
of  all  his  friends,  relations,  and  acquaintances  in  the  world. 
Possibly  a  sense  of  a  great  misfortune  made  this  sentiment  more 
tender  and  acute,  for,  as  we  shall  see,  there  were  some  things  in 
his  brother's  position,  and  in  the  horoscope  he  had  shown  him, 
which  Inglesant  did  not  like.  At  present,  however,  his  whole 
nature,  so  long  crushed  down  and  lacerated,  seemed  to  expand 
and  heal  itself  in  the  light  of  his  brother's  love  and  person,  and 
to  concentrate  aU  its  powers  into  one  intense  feeling,  and  to  lose 
its  own  identity  in  this  passion  of  brotherly  regard. 

This  feeling  might  also  be  increased  by  his  own  state  of 
health,  which  made  him  cling  closer  to  any  support.  His  long 
imprisonment,  and  the  sudden  change  from  his  quiet  cell  to  all 
the  bustle  of  the  city  life,  affected  his  mind  and  brain  painfully. 
He  was  confused  and  excited  among  a  crowd  of  persons  and 
objects  to  which  he  had  been  so  long  unaccustomed ;  his  brain 
and  system  had  received  ^  shock  from  which  he  never  entirely 
recovered,  and,  for  some  time  at  any  rate,  he  walked  as  one 
who  is  in  a  dream,  rather  than  as  a  man  engaged  in  the  active 
pm'suits  of  life. 

After  two  or  three  days  Eustace  told  his  brother  one  morn- 
ing that  he  was  ready  to  go  into  the  West,  but  before  starting 
he  said  he  wished  Johnny  to  accompany  him  to  a  famous  astro- 
loger in  Lambeth  Marsh,  to  whom  already  he  had  shown  the 
horoscope,  and  who  had  appointed  a  meeting  that  night  to  give 
his  answer,  and  who  had  also  promised  to  consult  a  crystal,  as 
an  additional  means  of  obtaming  information  of  the  future. 

Accordingly,  late  in  the  afternoon,  they  took  a  wherry  at 
the  Temple  Stairs,  and  were  ferried  over  to  Lambeth  Marsh,  a 
wide  extent  of  level  gromid  between  South wark  and  the  Bishop's 
Palace,  on  which  only  a  few  straggling  houses  had  been  built. 
The  evening  was  dark  and  foggy,  and  a  cold  wind  swept  across 
the  marsh,  making  them  wrap  their  short  cloaks  closely  about 
them.  It  was  almost  impossible  to  see  more  than  a  yard  or  two 
before  them,  and  they  would  probably  have  found  great  difficulty 


CHAP.  XV.]  A  ROMANCE.  173 

in  finding  the  wizard's  house  had  not  a  boy  with  a  lantern  met 
th3m  a  few  paces  from  the  river,  who  inqiiii'ed  if  they  were 
seeking  the  astrologer.  This  was  the  wizard's  own  boy,  whom, 
with  considerable  worldly  prudence  at  any  rate,  he  had  de- 
spatched to  find  his  chents  and  bring  them  to  his  house.  The 
boy  brought  them  iuto  a  long  low  room,  with  very  little  furni- 
tm-e  in  it,  a  small  table  at  the  upper  end,  with  a  large  chair 
behind  it,  and  three  or  foiu:  high-backed  chairs  placed  along  the 
wall.  On  the  floor,  in  tlie  middle  of  the  room,  was  a  large 
double  circle,  but  there  were  no  figures  or  signs  of  any  kind 
about  it.  On  the  table  was  a  long  thin  rod.  A  lamp  Avhich 
hung  from  the  roof  over  the  table  cast  a  faint  light  about  the 
room,  and  a  brazier  of  lighted  coals  stood  in  the  chimney. 

The  astrologer  soon  entered  the  room  with  the  horoscope 
Eustace  had  left  with  him  in  his  hand.  He  was  a  fine-looking 
man,  with  a  serious  and  lofty  expression  of  face,  dressed  in  a 
black  gown,  with  the  square  cap  of  a  divine,  and  a  fiu-  hood  or 
tippet.  He  bowed  courteously  to  the  gentlemen,  who  saluted 
him  with  great  respect.  His  manner  was  coldest  to  John 
Inglesant,  whom  he  probably  regarded  with  suspicion  as  an 
amateur.  He,  however,  acknowledged  that  Inglesant's  criti- 
cisms on  the  horoscope  were  correct,  but  pointed  out  to  him  that 
in  his  own  reading  of  it  many  of  the  aspects  were  very  adverse. 
John  Inglesant  knew  this,  though  he  had  chosen  to  conceal  it 
from  his  brother.  The  astrologer  then  informed  them  that  he 
had  drawn  out  a  scheme  of  the  heavens  himself  at  the  moment 
when  first  consulted  by  Eustace,  and  that,  in  quite  difterent 
ways,  and  by  very  different  aspects,  much  the  same  result  had 
been  arrived  at.  "As,  however,"  he  went  on  to  say,  "the 
whole  question  is  to  some  extent  vitiated  by  the  suspicion  of 
foul  play,  and  it  will  be  impossible  for  any  of  us  to  free  our 
minds  entirely  from  these  suspicions,  I  do  not  advise  any  farther 
inquiry ;  but  I  propose  that  you  should  consult  a  consecrated 
beryl  or  crystal — a  mode  of  inquiry  far  more  high  and  certain 
than  astrology,  so  much  so,  indeed,  that  I  will  seriously  confess 
to  you  that  I  use  the  latter  but  as  the  countenance  and  blind ; 
but  this  search  in  the  crystal  is  by  the  help  of  the  blessed 
spirits,  and  is  open  only  to  the  pure  from  sin,  and  to  men  of 
piety,  humility,  and  charity." 

As  he  said  these  words  he  produced  from  the  folds  of  hia 
gown  a  large  crystal  or  polished  stone,  set  in  a  circle  of  gold, 


174  JOHN  TNGLESANT;  [chap.  XV. 

supported  by  a  silver  stand.  Round  the  circle  were  engraved 
the  names  of  angels.  He  placed  this  upon  the  table,  and  con- 
tinued,— 

"We  must  pray  to  God  that  He  will  vouchsafe  us  some 
insight  into  this  precious  stone ;  for  it  is  a  solemn  and  serious 
matter  upon  which  we  are,  second  only  to  that  of  communication 
with  the  angelical  creatures  themselves,  which,  indeed,  is  vouch- 
safed to  some,  but  only  to  those  of  the  greatest  piety,  to  which 
we  may  not  aspire.  Therefore  let  us  kneel  down  and  humbly 
pray  to  God." 

They  all  knelt,  and  the  adept,  commencing  with  the  Prayer- 
book  collect  for  the  festival  of  St.  Michael,  recited  several  other 
prayers,  all  for  extreme  and  spotless  purity  of  life. 

He  then  rose,  the  two  others  continuing  on  their  knees,  and 
struck  a  small  bell,  upon  which  the  boy  whom  they  had  before 
seen  entered  the  room  by  a  concealed  door  in  the  wainscot.  He 
was  a  pretty  boy,  with  a  fair  and  clean  skin,  and  was  dressed 
in  a  surplice  similar  to  those  worn  by  choristers.  He  took  up 
a  position  by  the  crystal,  and  waited  his  master's  orders. 

"I  have  said,"  continued  the  adept,  "that  these  visions 
can  be  seen  only  by  the  pure,  and  by  those  who,  by  long  and 
intense  looking  into  the  spiritual  world,  have  at  last  penetrated 
somewhat  into  its  gloom.  I  have  found  these  mostly  to  be 
plain  and  simple  people,  of  an  earnest  faith, — country  people, 
,  grave-diggers,  and  those  employed  to  shroud  the  dead,  and  who 
are  accustomed  to  think  much  upon  objects  connected  with 
death.  This  boy  is  the  child  of  the  sexton  of  Lambeth  Church, 
who  is  himself  a  godly  man.     Let  us  pray  to  God." 

Upon  this  he  knelt  down  again  and  remained  for  some  time 
engaged  in  silent  prayer.  He  then  rose  and  directed  the  boy 
to  look  into  the  crystal,  saying,  "  One  of  these  gentlemen  desires 
news  of  his  wife." 

The  boy  looked  intently  into  the  crystal  for  some  moments, 
and  then  said,  speaking  in  a  measm-ed  and  low  voice, — 

"I  see  a  gi-eat  room,  in  which  there  is  a  bed  with  rich 
hangings ;  pendent  from  the  ceiling  is  a  silver  lamp.  A  tall 
dark  man,  mth  long  hair,  and  a  dagger  in  his  belt,  is  bending 
over  the  bed  with  a  cup  in  his  hand." 

"  It  is  my  wife's  room,"  said  Eustace  in  a  whisper,  "  and  it 
is  no  doubt  the  Italian ;  he  is  tall  and  dark." 

The  boy  continued  to  look  for  some  time  into  the  crystal, 


CHAP.  XV.]  A  ROMANCE.  175 

but  said  nothing ;  then  he  turned  to  his  master  and  said,  "  I 
can  see  nothing ;  some  one  more  near  to  this  gentleman  must 
look ;  this  other  gentleman,"  he  said  suddenly,  and  turning  to 
John  Inglesant,  "  if  he  looks,  will  be  able  to  see." 

The  astrologer  started.  "Ah  !"  he  said,  "why  do  you  say 
that,  boy?" 

"  I  can  tell  who  will  see  aught  in  the  crystal,  and  who  will 
not,"  replied  the  boy ;  "  this  gentleman  will  see." 

The  astrologer  seemed  siu-prised  and  sceptical,  but  he  made 
a  sign  to  Inglesant  to  rise  from  his  knees,  and  to  take  his  place 
by  the  crystal. 

He  did  so,  and  looked  steadily  into  it  for  some  seconds, 
then  he  shook  his  head. 

"  I  can  see  nothing,"  he  said. 

"  Nothing  !"  said  the  boy ;  "  can  you  see  nothing?" 

"  No.     I  see  clouds  and  mist." 

"You  have  been  engaged,"  said  the  boy,  "in  something 
that  was  not  good — something  that  was  not  true ;  and  it  has 
dimmed  the  crystal  sight.  Look  steadily,  and  if  it  is  as  I 
think,  that  your  motive  was  not  false,  you  will  see  more." 

Inglesant  looked  again;  and  in  a  moment  or  two  gave  a 
start,  saying, — "  The  mist  is  breaking  !  I  see ; — I  see  a  large 
room,  with  a  chimney  of  carved  stone,  and  a  high  window  at 
the  end ;  in  the  window  and  on  the  carved  stone  is  the  same 
coat  many  times  repeated — three  running  gTcyhounds  proper,  on 
a  field  vert." 

"  I  know  the  room,"  said  Eustace ;  "  it  is  the  inn  parlour 
at  Mintern,  not  six  miles  from  Oulton.  It  was  the  manor  of 
the  Vinings  before  the  wars,  but  is  now  an  inn ;  ^that  was  their 
coat." 

"  Do  you  see  aught  else  1"  said  the  adept. 

Inglesant  gave  a  long  look;  then  he  stepped  back,  and 
gazed  at  the  astrologer,  and  from  him  to  his  brother,  with  a 
faltering  and  ashy  look. 

"I  see  a  man's  figure  lie  before  the  hearth,  and  the  hearth- 
stone is  stained,  as  if  with  blood.  Eustace,  it  is  either  you 
or  I!" 

"  Look  again,"  said  the  adept  eagerly,  "look  again  !" 

"I  will  look  no  more!"  said  Inglesant  fiercely;  "this  is 
the  work  of  a  fiend,  to  lure  men  to  madness  or  despair !" 

As  he  spoke,  a  blast  of  wind — sudden  and  strong — swept 


176  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [CHAP.  XV. 

through  the  room;  the  lamp  burnt  dim;  and  the  fire  in  the 
brazier  went  out.  A  deathly  coldness  filled  the  apartment,  and 
the  floor  and  the  walls  seemed  to  heave  and  shake.  A  lo  id 
whisper,  or  muffled  cry,  seemed  to  fill  the  air ;  and  a  tenible 
awe  struck  at  the  hearts  of  the  young  men.  Seizing  the  rod 
from  the  table,  the  adept  assiuned  a  commanding  attitude,  and 
waved  it  to  and  fro  in  the  air ;  gradually  the  wind  ceased,  the 
dread  coldness  abated,  and  the  fire  bm-ned  again  of  its  own  accord. 
The  adept  gazed  at  Inglesant  with  a  stern  and  set  look. 

"  You  are  of  a  strange  spirit,  yoimg  sir,"  he  said ;  "  pure  in 
heart  enough  to  see  things  which  many  holy  men  have  desired 
in  vain  to  see ;  and  yet  so  wild  and  rebellious  as  to  anger  the 
blessed  spirits  witli  your  self-will  and  perverse  thoughts.  You 
will  sufi'er  fatal  loss,  both  here  and  hereafter,  if  you  learn  not 
to  give  up  your  own  will,  and  your  own  fancies,  before  the 
heavenly  will  and  call." 

Inglesant  stared  at  the  man  in  silence.  His  words  seemed 
to  him  to  mean  far  more  than  perhaps  he  himself  knew.  They 
seemed  to  come  into  his  mind,  softened  with  anxiety  for  his 
brother,  and  shaken  by  these  terrible  events,  with  the  light  of 
a  revelation.  Surely  this  was  the  true  secret  of  his  wasted  life, 
however  strange  might  be  the  place  and  action  which  revealed 
it  to  him.  Whatever  he  might  think  afterwards  of  this  night, 
it  might  easily  stand  to  him  as  an  allegory  of  his  own  spirit,  set 
down  before  him  in  a  figiu-e.  Doubtless  he  was  perverse  and 
headstrong  under  the  pressiu-e  of  the  Divine  Hand ;  doubtless 
he  had  followed  his  own  notions  rather  than  the  voice  of  the 
inward  monitor  he  professed  to  hear;  henceforth,  surely,  he 
would  give  hiniself  up  more  entirely  to  the  heavenly  voice. 

Eustace  appeared  to  have  seen  enough  of  the  future,  and  to 
be  anxious  to  go.  He  left  a  purse  of  gold  upon  the  wizard's 
table ;  and  hurried  his  brother  to  take  his  leave. 

Outside  the  air  was  perfectly  still ;  a  thick  motionless  fog 
hung  over  the  marsh  and  the  river;  not  a  breath  of  wind  stirred. 

"  That  was  a  strange  wind  that  swept  by  as  you  refused  to 
look,"  said  Eustace  to  his  brother ;  "  do  you  really  think  the 
spirits  were  near,  and  were  incensed  V 

Inglesant  did  not  reply ;  he  was  thinking  of  another  spirit 
than  that  the  wizard  had  evoked. 

They  made  their  way  through  the  fcg  to  Lambeth,  and  took 
boat  again  to  the  Temple  Stairs. 


CHAKXVI.]  A  ROIklANCE.  177 


CHAPTER  XVL 

The  next  morning,  when  the  brothers  awoke  and  spoke  to  each 
other  of  the  events  of  the  night,  Eustace  did  not  seem  to  have 
been  much  impressed  by  them  :  he  ridiculed  the  astrologer,  and 
made  light  of  the  visions  in  the  crystal ;  he,  however,  acknow- 
ledged to  his  brother  that  it  might  be  better  to  avoid  the  inn 
parloiu-  at  Mintern,  and  said  they  might  reach  Oulton  by 
another  route. 

"There  is  a  road,"  he  said,  "after  you  leave  Cem  Abbas, 
which  turns  off  five  or  six  miles  before  you  come  to  Mintern ; 
it  is  not  much  farther,  but  it  is  not  so  good  a  road,  and  not 
much  frequented.  It  ^ill  be  quite  good  enough  for  us,  how- 
ever, and  will  not  delay  us  above  an  liour.  But  I  own  I  feel 
ashamed  of  taking  it." 

John  Ingiesant,  however,  encouraged  him  to  do  so;  and 
towards  middle  day  they  left  London  on  the  Windsor  Road. 
Ingiesant  noticed  as  they  started,  that  his  brother's  favomite 
servant  was  absent,  and  asked  his  brother  where  he  was.  He 
replied  that  he  had  sent  him  forward  early  in  the  morning  to 
inform  his  wife  of  their  coming. 

"  I  woidd  not  have  let  them  know  of  your  intentions,"  said 
Johnny. 

Eustace  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  a  peculiar  gesture, 
saying  in  French, — 

"It  is  not  convenient  for  me  to  come  into  my  family 
unannounced.  I  do  not  know  what  I  might  find  going 
forward," 

Johnny  thought  that  his  brother  had  bought  his  fortune 
rather  dear ;  but  he  said  nothing  more  upon  the  subject. 

They  slept  that  night  at  Windsor,  and  hoped  to  have 
reached  Andover  the  next  day ;  but  their  servants'  horses,  and 
those  with  the  mails,  were  not  equal  to  so  long  a  distance,  and 
they  slept  at  Basingstoke,  not  being  able  to  get  farther.  The 
weather  was  pleasant  for  the  season,  and  to  Ingiesant  especially 
— so  long  confined  mthin  stone  walls — the  jom-ney  was  very 
agreeable.  It  reminded  him  of  his  ride  up  to  London  with  the 
Jesuit  long  ago  when  a  boy,  when  everything  was  new  and 

N 


178  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap.  xvi. 

delightful  to  him,  and  the  future  open  and  iiromising.  Thp 
way  had  then  been  enlivened  and  every  interest  doubled  by  the 
conversation  of  his  friend,  who  had  known  how  to  extract 
interest  and  amusement  from  the  most  trivial  incidents ;  but  it 
was  not  less  made  pleasant  now  by  the  society  of  his  brother. 
A  great  change  seemed  to  be  coming  over  Eustace.  He  was 
affectionate  and  serious.  He  spoke. much  of  past  years,  of  their 
grandfather,  and  of  the  old  life  at  Westacre ;  of  his  early  Court 
life,  before  Johnny  came  to  London,  and  of  the  day  when  he 
came  down  to  Westacre  with  his  father  and  the  Jesuit,  and 
saw  his  brother  again.  He  asked  Johnny  much  about  his  own 
life,  and  listened  attentively  to  all  Ingiesant  thought  proper  to 
tell  him  of  his  religious  inquiries.  He  asked  about  the  Ferrars, 
and  told  Ingiesant  some  of  the  things  that  had  been  said  at 
Court  about  him  and  them.  A  sense  of  danger — even  though 
it  made  little  impression  upon  hini — seemed  to  Lave  called 
forth  kindly  feelings  wliich  had  been  latent  before ;  or  perhaps 
some  foreboding  sense  hung  over  him,  and — by  a  gracious 
Providence — fitted  and  tuned  his  mind  for  an  approacliing  fate. 
Ingiesant  felt  his  heart  drawn  towards  liim  with  an  intensity 
v\^hich  he  had  never  felt  before.  The  whole  world  seemed  for 
the  time  to  be  centred  in  this  brother ;  and  he  looked  forward  to 
life  associated  with  him. 

They  slept  at  Andover ,  and  the  next  day  made  a  shorter 
journey  to  Salisbury,  where  they  slept  again.  The  stately 
Cathedral  was  closed  and  melancholy-looking,  and  knowing  no 
one  in  the  town,  they  passed  the  long  evening  alone  in  the  inn. 
The  next  morning  early  they  set  out.  They  halted  at  Cera 
Abbas  about  one  o'clock,  and  dined.  Eustace  made  some 
inquiries  about  the  road  he  had  mentioned  to  his  brother,  but 
seemed  more  and  more  unwilling  to  take  it,  and  it  required  all 
Ingiesant's  persuasion  to  keep  him  to  his  promise.  The  people 
at  the  inn  seemed  surinised  that  any  one  shoidd  think  of  taking 
it,  and  made  out  that  the  delay  would  be  very  great,  and  the 
chance  of  missing  the  way  altogether  not  a  little.  At  this, 
however,  Eustace  laughed,  saying  that  he  knew  the  country 
very  well.  Indeed  his  desire  to  show  the  truth  of  this  assertion 
rather  assisted  his  brother's  piu-pose,  and  they  left  Cern  Abbas 
with  the  full  intention  of  taking  the  unusual  route.  The  country 
was  thickly  wooded,  many  parts  of  the  ancient  forest  remaining, 
and  here  and  there  rather  hilly.     In  descending  one  of  these 


CHAP.  XVI.]  A  ROMANCE.  179 

hills  John  Inglesaut's  horse  cast  a  shoe,  just  as  they  reaihed  the 
point  where  the  two  roads  diverged,  the  right  hand  one  of  which 
they  were  to  take.  As  it  was  impossible  for  them  to  proceed 
with  the  horse  as  it  was,  Johnny  proposed  sending  it  back  with 
one  of  the  servants  to  Cern  Abbas,  and  taking  the  man's  horse 
instead,  who  could -easily  follow  them.  As  they  were  about  to 
put  in  practice  this  scheme,  however,  one  of  the  men  said  there 
was  a  forge  about  a  mile  beyond,  on  the  road  before  them,  where 
it  would  be  easy  to  get  the  shoe  put  on.  Eustace  immediately 
approved  of  this  plan,  and  Johnny  was  obliged  at  last  reluct- 
antly to  yield.  It  seemed  to  him  as  though  the  impending  fate 
came  nearer  and  nearer  at  every  step.  The  man  proved  him- 
self to  be  an  uncertain  guide  as  to  distance,  and  it  was  fully  two 
miles  before  they  reached  the  forge.  When  they  reached  it  they 
found  that  a  gentleman's  coach,  large  and  unwieldy,  had  broken 
some  portion  of  its  complicated  machinery,  and  was  taxing  all 
the  efforts  of  the  smith  and  his  assistants  to  repair  it.  The 
gentlemen  dismounted  and  accosted  the  two  ladies  w^o  had 
alighted  from  the  coach,  and  whom  Eustace  remembered  to  have 
met  before  at  Dorchester.  The  coach  was  soon  mended,  and 
the  ladies  drove  off;  but  by  this  time  Eustace  had  grown 
impatient,  and,  saying  carelessly  to  his  brother,  "  You  will  follow 
immediately,"  he  mounted  and  turned  his  horse's  head  still  along 
the  main  road,  his  men  mounting  also. 

"You  are  not  going  on  that  way,"  said  Johnny;  "you  said 
we  should  turn  back  to  the  other  road." 

"  Oh,  we  cannot  tm^n  back  now,"  said  his  brother ;  "  we 
have  come  farther  tlian  I  expected.  We  will  not  stop  at 
Mintern,"  he  added  sigiiificantly. 

And  so  saying  he  rode  away  after  the  carriage,  foUowed  by 
his  men. 

Inglesant  looked  after  him  anxiously,  a  heavy  foreboding 
filling  his  mind.  He  saw  his  brother  mount  the  little  hill  before 
the  forge,  between  the  bare  branches  of  the  trees  on  either  side 
of  the  road  ;  then  a  slight  turn  of  the  way  concealed  him,  but, 
for  a  moment  or  two  more,  he  could  see  glimpses  of  the  figures 
as  the  leafless  boughs  permitted,  then,  when  he  could  see  even 
these  no  longer,  he  went  back  into  the  forge.  It  was  some  ten 
minutes  before  the  horse  was  ready,  and  then  Inglesant  himself 
mounted,  and  rode  off  quickly  after  his  brother.  He  hud  felt 
ail  the  day,  and  during  the  one  preceding  it,  a  weariness  and 


180  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [CHAP.  XVL 

diilness  of  sense,  the  result,  no  doubt,  of  fatigue  acting  upon  his 
only  partially  recovered  health,  and  on  a  frame  shattered  by 
what  he  had  gone  through.  As  he  rode  on,  his  brain  became 
more  and  more  confused,  so  that  for  some  moments  together  he 
was  almost  unconscious,  and  only  by  an  effort  regained  his  sense 
of  passing  events.  The  woods  seemed  to  pass  by  him  as  in  a 
dream,  the  thick  winter  air  to  hang  about  him  like  the  heavy 
drapery  of  a  pall,  whether  he  was  sleeping  or  waking  he  coidd 
scarcely  tell.  What  added  to  his  distress  was  an  abiding  sense 
of  crisis  and  danger  to  his  brother,  which  rec^uired  him  at  that 
moment,  above  all  others,  to  exert  a  strength  and  a  prescience 
of  which  he  felt  himself  becoming  more  and  more  incapable. 
He  was  continually  making  violent  efforts  to  retain  his  recollec- 
tion of  what  was  passing  and  of  what  it  behoved  him  to  do, — 
efforts  which  each  time  became  more  and  more  painful,  and  of 
the  futility  of  which  he  became  more  and  more  despairingly 
conscious.  Words  cannot  describe  the  torture  of  such  a  condi- 
tion as- this. 

At  last  he  overtook  some  of  his  brother's  servants  with  the 
led  horses,  whom  he  scarcely  recognized,  so  far  were  his  senses 
obsciu-ed.  Their  master  had  ridden  on  before  with  two  servants, 
they  told  him ;  he  would  have  to  ride  hard  to  overtake  them. 
He  seemed  eager,  they  said,  to  be  at  home.  Iiiglesant  could 
scarcely  sit  his  horse,  much  less  expect  to  overtake  his  brother — 
who  was  well  mounted  and  an  impetuous  rider — nevertheless  he 
gave  his  horse  the  spiu",  and  the  animal,  also  a  good  roadster, 
soon  left  the  servants  far  behind.  The  confusion  of  mind  which 
he  suffered  increased  more  and  more  as  he  rode  along,  and  the 
events  of  his  past  life  came  up  before  his  eyes  as  clearly  and 
palpably  as  the  objects  through  which  he  was  riding,  so  that  he 
could  not  distinguish  the  real  from  the  imaginary,  the  present 
from  the  past,  which  added  extremely  to  his  distress.  He  stood 
again  amid  the  confusion  and  carnage  of  Naseby  field ;  once 
more  he  saw  the  throng  of  heads,  and  heard  that  terrible,  cry 
that  had  welcomed  him  to  the  scaffold  ;  again  he  looked  into  the 
fatal  crystal,  and  strange  visions  and  ghostly  shapes  of  death 
and  corruption  came  out  from  it,  and  walked  to  and  fro  along 
the  hedgerows  and  across  the  road  before  him,  making  terrible 
the  familiar  English  fields ;  a  tolling  of  the  passing  bell  rang 
continually  in  his-  ear,  and  his  horse's  footfalls  sounded  strange 
and  funereal  to  his  diseased  sense.     He  knew  nothing  of  the 


CHAP.  XVI.  J  A  ROMANCE.  181 

road,  nor  of  what  happened  as  he  rode  along,  n^r  wliat  people 
he  passed;  but  he  missed  the  direct  turning,  and  reached 
Mintern  at  last  by  another  lane  which  led  him  some  distance 
roimd.  The  servants  with  the  led  horses  were  there  before 
him,  standing  before  the  inn  door,  and  other  strange  servants  in 
his  brother's  liveries  and  several  horses  stood  about. 

The  old  manor  that  was  now  an  inn  stood  close  to  the 
Church,  at  the  opening  of  the  village,  with  a  little  green  before 
it  and  a  wall,  in  the  centre  of  which  was  a  pair  of  gates  flanked 
with  pillars.  The  iron  gates  were  closed,  but  the  wall  had  been 
thrown  down  for  some  yards  on  either  side,  thus  giving  ample 
access  to  the  house  within.  It  was  a  handsome  house  with  a 
large  high  window  over  the  porch,  in  the  upper  panes  of  which 
Inglesaut  could  see  coats  of  arms.  Amid  the  tracery  of  the  iron 
gates  runhing  greyhounds  were  interlaced. 

John  Inglesant  saw  all  this  as  in  a  dream,  and  he  saw 
besides  creatures  that  were  not  real,  walking  among  the  living 
men ;  haggard  figiu-es  in  long  robes,  and  others  beneath  the 
grave  shrouds,  ghostly  phantoms  of  his  disordered  brain.  He 
made  a  desperate  eff'ort  for  the  hundredth  time  to  clear  his  sense 
of  these  terrible  distracting  sights,  of  this  death  of  the  brain 
that  disabled  all  his  faculties,  and  for  the  hundredth  time  in 
vain.  It  appeared  to  him — whether  it  was  a  vision  or  a  reality, 
he  did  not  know — that  one  of  his  brother's  servants  came  to  his 
horse's  side,  and  told  him  something  of  a  gentleman  of  his  lady's, 
a  foreign  physician,  having  met  his  master  pm^posely,  and  that 
they  were  within  together.  Inglesant  dismounted  mechanically 
and  entered  the  hotel,  telling  the  servant  to  come  with  him. 
He  had  some  dim  feeling  of  drag.ging  his  brother  away  from  a 
great  danger,  and  a  desire  of  gathering  about  him,  if  he  could 
but  distinguish  them,  such  as  would  assist  him  and  were  of 
himian  flesh  and  blood.  Inside  the  porch,  and  in  the  narrow 
hall  beyond,  the  place  swarmed  with  these  distracting  visions 
walking  to  and  fro ;  the  staircase  at  the  farther  end  was  crowded 
with  them  going  up  and  down.  He  saw,  as  he  thought,  his 
brother,  attended  by  a  dark,  handsome  man,  in  the  gown  of  a 
physician,  come  down  the  stairs  to  meet  him,  but  when  they 
came  nearer  they  dissolved  themselves  and  vanished  into  air. 

The  host  came  to  meet  him,  saying  that  his  brother  and  the 
foreign  gentleman  were  upstairs  in  the  parlour  ;  he  had  thought 
they  were  having  some  words  a  while  ago,  but  they  were  quie^ 


182  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [chap.  xviL 

now.  The  whole  house,  Inglesant  thought,  was  deadly  quiet, 
though  seemingly  to  him  so  full  of  life.  To  what  terrible  deed 
were  all  these  strange  witnesses  and  assistants  summoned?  He 
told  the  host  to  follow  him  as  he  had  told  the  man  before ;  and 
he  did  so,  supposing  he  meant  to  order  something.  They  went 
up  the  two  flights  of  the  oak  stairs,  and  entered  the  room  over 
the  hall  and  porch.  It  was  a  large  and  narrow  room,  and  was 
seemingly  empty.  Opposite  them,  in  the  high  window,  and  on 
the  great  carved  chimney  to  the  right,  nmning  greyhounds 
coiu-sed  each  other,  as  it  seemed  to  Inglesant,  round  the  room. 
A  long  table  hid  the  hearth  as  they  came  in.  With  a  fatal 
certainty,  as  if  mechanically,  Inglesant  walked  round  it  towards 
the  fire,  the  others  with  him ;  there  they  stopped — sudden  and 
still.  On  the  white  hearthstone — his  hair  and  clothes  steeped 
in  blood — lay  Eustace  Inglesant,  the  Italian's  stildtto  in  his 
heart. 


CHAPTER  XVIL 

The  sight  of  his  brother's  corpse  seemed  to  steady  Inglesant's 
nerves,  and  clear  his  brain.  He  tm-ned  to  the  host,  and  said, 
"  What  way  can  the  murderer  have  escaped  V 

The  host  shook  his  head ;  he  was  incapable  of  speech,  or 
even  thought.  The  three  men  stood  looking  at  each  other 
without  a  word.  Then  Inglesant  knelt  down  by  the  body,  and 
raised  the  head ;  there  was  no  doubt  that  life  was  extinct — 
indeed,  the  body  must  have  been  nearly  drained  of  blood ;  tho 
fine  line  of  steel  had  done  its  work  fully,  and  with  no  loss  of 
time.  Inglesant  rose  from  the  ground ;  his  sight,  his  recollec- 
tion, his  senses  were  speedily  failing  him ;  nothing  kept  him 
conscious  but  the  terrible  shock  acting  with  galvanic  effect  upon 
his  frame.  The  back  of  the  premises  was  searched,  and  mounted 
messengers  were  sent  to  the  neighbouring  towns  and  to  the  cross 
roads,  and  notice  sent  to  the  nearest  Justice  of  the  Peace.  The 
country  rose  in  great  numbers,  and  came  pouring  in  to  Mintern 
before  the  early  evening  set  in.  The  body  was  deposited  on 
the  long  table  in  the  parlour  where  the  deed  was  committed ; 
and  more  than  one  Justice  examined  the  room  that  afternoon. 
Inglesant  saw  that  the  guard  was  set,  and  proper  care  taken ; 
and  then  lie  niounted  to  ride  to  Oulton.     He  was  not  fit  to 


CHAP.  XVII.]  A  ROMANCE.  183 

ride ;  but  to  stay  iii  the  house  all  night  was  impossible — to  lie 
down  equally  so.  In  the  night  air  he  rode  to  Oulton,  through 
the  long  wild  chase,  by  the  pools  of  water — from  which  the 
flocks  of  birds  rose  startled  as  he  passed,  and  by  the  herds  of 
deer.  The  ride  settled  his  nerves,  and  when  he  reached  the 
house  he  was  still  master  of  himself.  The  news  had  preceded 
him ;  Lady  Cardiff  was  said  to  be  in  a  paroxysm  of  grief;  but, 
as  no  one  had  seen  her  for  days  except  her  immediate  servants, 
Inglesant  did  not  attempt  to  obtain  an  interview  with  her.  He 
was  receis^ed  by  Dr.  More  and  the  superior  servants,  and  sat 
down  to  supper.  Not  a  word  was  spoken  during  that  sombre 
meal  except  by  the  Doctor,  who  pressed  Inglesant  to  eat  and 
drink,  and  offered  to  introduce  him  to  Van  Helmont,  who  was 
not  present.  The  Doctor  said  grace  after  supper ;  but  when  he 
had  done,  one  of  the  female  servants,  a  Quakeress,  stood  up  and 
spoke  some  words  recommending  patience  and  a  feeling  after 
God,  if  perchance  He  might  be  found  to  be  present,  and  a  help 
in  such  a  terrible  need.  The  singularity  of  this  proceeding 
roused  Inglesant  from  the  lethargy  in  which  he  was,  and  the 
words  seemed  to  strike  upon  his  heart  with  a  familiar  and  not 
uncongenial  sense.  The  mystical  doctrine  which  he  had  studied 
was  not  unlike  much  that  he  would  hear  from  Quaker  lips.  He 
went  to  his  room  after  supper,  intending  to  rise  early  next 
morning ;  but  before  daybreak  he  was  delirious  and  in  a  high 
fever,  and  Van  Helmont  was  sent  for  to  his  room,  and  bled  him 
freely,  and  administered  cordials  and  narcotic  draughts.  The 
skilful  treatment  caused  him  to  sleep  quietly  for  many  hours ; 
and  when  he  awoke,  though  jDrostrate  with  weakness,  he  was 
free  from  fever,  and  his  brain  was  calm  and  clear. 

From  inquiries  which  he  made,  it  appeared  that  the  Italian 
had  been  making  preparations  for  leaving  for  several  days,  prob- 
ably doubting  the  success  of  his  attempt  to  win  over  Eustace  to 
tolerate  his  continued  stay  at  Oulton.  Inglesant  was  told  that 
it  was  supposed  that  he  had  not  intended  to  murder  his  brother ; 
but  that  Eustace  had  probably  threatened  him,  and  that  in  the 
heat  of  contention  the  blow  was  struck.  The  Italian  had  de- 
stroyed all  his  papers,  and  everything  that  could  give  any  clue 
to  his  conduct  or  history ;  but  he  had  left  a  very  bad  reputation 
behind  him,  independently  of  his  last  murderous  act ;  and  his 
influence  with  Lady  Cardiff  was  attributed  to  witchcraft. 

The  funeral  of  Eustace  Inglesant  took  place  a  few  days 


184  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [chap,  xvil 

after,  at  the  Church  on  the  borders  of  the  chase.  Snow  had 
fallen  in  the  meanwhile  ;  and  the  train  of  black  mourners  passed 
over  the  waste  of  white  that  covered  the  park.  A  multitude  of 
people  filled  the  churchyard,  and  crowded  round  the  outside  of 
the  hall.  Lady  Cardift',  by  lavish  almsgiving  and  other  vagaries, 
had  always  attracted  a  number  of  vagrant  and  masterless  people 
to  Oulton ;  and  there  were  always  some  encampments  of  such 
people  in  the  chase.  She  particularly  favoured  mountebanks 
and  quacks  of  all  kinds,  and  numbers  of  them  were  present  at 
the  funeral.  Some  few  of  the  country  gentry  attended ;  but 
Eustace  being  almost  unknown  in  the  country,  and  his  wife  by 
no  means  popular,  many  who  otherwise  would  have  been  present 
were  not  so.  The  Pui'itan  authorities  of  the  neighbourhood 
suspected  Lady  Cardiff's  establishments  as  a  haunt  of  recusants. 
Dr.  More  was  a  known  royalist;  Eustace  had  been  only  re- 
strained from  active  exertion  on  the  same  side  by  his  love  of 
p}easm-e  and  his  wife's  prudence ;  and  the  Pmitans  regarded  the 
Quakers  with  no  favour.  The  herd  of  idle  and  vicious  people, 
as  the  authorities  considered  them,  who  frequented  Oulton,  was 
an  abomination  in  their  eyes ;  and  imderstanding  that  a  number 
of  them  woidd  be  at  the  fimeral,  two  or  three  Puritan  magis- 
trates, with  armed  servants  and  constables,  assembled  to  keep 
order,  as  they  said,  but,  as  it  proved,  to  provoke  a  riot.  To 
make  matters  worse.  Dr.  More  began  to  read  the  Prayer  Book 
service,  which  was  forbidden  by  law.  The  Justices  interposed ; 
the  mob  of  mountebanks,  and  players,  and  idle  people,  sided  with 
the  Church  party,  which  had  always  given  them  a  friendly  tolera- 
tion, and  commenced  an  assault  upon  the  constables  and  Justices' 
servants,  driving  them  from  the  grave  side  with  a  storm  of  snow- 
balls. The  funeral  was  completed  with  great  haste,  and  the 
mourning  party  returned  to  the  house,  whither  the  mob  also 
r^orted,  and  were  regaled  with  provisions  of  all  kinds  during 
the  afternoon,  being  with  difficulty  induced  to  disperse  at  night. 

Inglesant  took  no  part  in  this  riot,  being  indeed  still  too 
weak  and  ill  to  exert  himself  at  all.  He  expected  to  be  arrested 
and  sent  back  to  London;  but  the  authorities  did  not  take  much 
notice  of  the  riot,  contenting  themselves  with  dispersing  the 
people,  and  seeing  that  most  of  them  left  the  neighbourhood, 
which  they  were  induced  to  do  by  being  set  in  the  village  stocks, 
and  otherwise  imprisoned  and  intimidated. 

Lady  Cardiff  had  sent  messages  to  Inglesant  every  day, 


CHAP.  XVII.]  A  ROMANCE.  185 

expressing  her  interest  in  him,  and  she  now  sent  Van  Helmont 
to  him  with  the  information  that  a  large  sum  of  money,  which 
she  had  assigned  to  his  brother,  would  now  be  his.  This  sum, 
which  amounted  to  several  thousand  pounds,  she  was  ready  to 
pay  over  to  Inglesant  whenever  he  might  desire  it.  She  hoped 
he  would  remain  at  Oulton  till  his  health  was  more  established, 
but  she  hinted  that  she  thought  it  was  for  his  own  interest  that 
neither  his  stay  there,  nor  indeed  in  England,  should  be  un- 
necessarily prolonged.  Meanwhile,  she  recommended  him  to 
Dr.  More  and  to  the  Quakers  j  the  teaching  which  he  would 
derive  from  both  sources,  she  assured  him,  would  be  much  to 
his  benefit.  Inglesant  returned  a  courteous  message  expressive 
of  his  obligation  for  her  extraordinary  generosity,  and  assiuing 
her  that  he  should  endeavour  to  benefit  by  whatever  her  inmates 
might  communicate  to  him.  He  informed  her  that  he  intended, 
as  soon  as  his  strength  was  sufficiently  established,  to  go  to 
Paris,  where  the  only  friend  he  had  left  was,  and  that  any  sum 
of  money  she  was  so  generous  as  to  aff'ord  him  might  be  trans-  ' 
mitted  to  the  merchants  there.  He  had  some  thoughts,  he  said, 
of  going  to  Gidding,  but  had  learnt  that  soon  after  the  execution 
of  the  King,  the  house  had  been  attacked  by  a  mob  of  soldiers 
and  others,  and  that  the  family,  who  had  timely  warning  of 
their  intention,  had  left  the  neighboiurhood  and  were  dispersed. 
He  concluded  by  hoping  that  before  he  left  he  might  be  allowed 
to  thank  his  benefactress  in  person. 

Some  weeks  passed  over  at  Oulton  with  great  tranquillity, 
and  Inglesant  regained  his  strength  and  calmness  of  mind. 
There  was  a  large  and  valuable  library  in  the  house,  and  the 
society  of  Dr.  More  was  pleasant  to  Inglesant,  though  in  many 
ways  they  were  far  from  congenial ;  indeed,  there  was  more  in 
Van  Helmont's  character  and  tastes  that  suited  his  tone  of  mind. 
Diu-ing  these  weeks,  however,  Inglesant  began  to  adapt  himself 
to  a  course  of  religious  life  from  which  he  never  altogether 
departed,  and  which,  after  some  doubts  and  many  attempts  on 
the  part  of  others  to  divert  him  from  it,  he  followed  to  the  end 
of  his  life.  He  was  no  doubt  strengthened  at  the  beginning  of 
this  course  by  the  conversation  of  Dr.  More,  and  also  of  the 
Quakers.  These  latter,  whom  Inglesant  had  been  led  to  regard 
with  aversion,  he  found  harmless  and  sober  people,  whose  blame- 
less lives,  and  the  elevated  mysticism  of  their  conversation, 
commended  them  to  him. 


186  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap.  XVII. 

The  transient  calm  of  this  existence  was,  however,  broken 
by  one  absorbing  idea — the  desire  of  being  revenged  upon  hi? 
brother's  murderer,  of  tracking  the  Italian's  path,  and  bringing 
him  to  some  terrible  justice.  It  was  this  that  induced  him  to 
seek  the  Jesuit,  whom  at  one  time  he  had  been  inclined  to  shun. 
No  one,  he  considered,  would  have  it  in  liis  power,  from  the 
innumerable  agents  in  every  country  with  whom  he  had  con- 
nection, to  assist  him  in  his  search  so  much  as  the  Jesuit ;  and 
he  believed  that  he  had  deserved  as  much  at  his  master's  hand. 
But  it  was  not  natural  that,  at  any  rate  at  once,  he  should 
suppose  that  such  a  motive  as  this  would  be  any  hindrance  to 
him  in  a  religious  life,  and  for  a  long  time  he  was  unconscious 
of  any  such  idea. 

It  will  be  as  well  here  to  endeavour  to  understand  some- 
thing of  the  peculiar  form  which  Christianity  had  assumed  in 
Inglesant's  mi  ad — a  form  which  was  not  peculiar  to  himself, 
but  which  he  possessed  in  common  with  most  in  that  day  whose 
training  had  been  more  or  less  similar  to  his  own.  It  was 
similar  in  many  respects  to  that  which  prevails  in  the  present 
day  in  most  Roman  Catholic  countries,  and  may  be  described  as 
Christianity  without  the  Bible.  It  is  doubtful  whether,  except 
perhaps  once  or  twice  in  College  Chapel,  he  had  ever  read  a 
chapter  of  the  Bible  himself  in  his  life.  Certainly  he  never 
possessed  a  Bible  himself;  of  its  contents,  excepting  those 
portions  which  are  read  in  Church  and  those  contained  in  the 
Prayer  Book,  he  was  profoundly  ignorant.  It  was  not  included 
in  the  course  of  studies  set  him  by  the  Jesuit.  Of  the  Protest- 
ant doctrines  of  justification  by  faith  and  by  the  blood  of  Christ, 
and  of  the  Calvinistic  ones  of  predestination  and  assurance,  he 
was  only  acquainted  in  a  vague  and  general  way,  as  he  might 
have  heard  mention  of  them  in  idle  talk,  mostly  in  contempt 
and  dislike.  It  is  true  the  Laudian  School  iti  the  Church,  in 
which  he  had  been  brought  up,  held  doctrines  which,  in  outward 
terms,  might  seem  to  bear  some  afiiuity  with  some,  if  not  all  of 
these ;  but  they  were  in  reality  very  different.  The  Laudian 
School  held,  indeed,  that  the  sacrifice  of  Christ's  blood  had 
removed  the  guilt  of  sin,  and  that  by  that,  and  that  only,  was 
Balvation  secured  to  men ;  but  they  held  that  this  had  been 
accomplished  on  the  Cross,  once  for  all,  independently  of  any- 
thing that  man  could  do  or  leave  undone.  The  very  slightest 
recognition,  on  the  part  of  man,  of  this  Divine  sacrifice,  the 


CHAP.  XVII.]  A  ROMANCK  187 

very  least  sul)mission  to  the  Church  ordinances,  combined  with 
freedom  from  outward  sin,  was  sufficient  to  secure  salvation  to 
the  baptized ;  and  indesd  the  Church  regarded  with  leniency 
and  hope  even  the  wild  and  reprobate.  It  is  true  that  the 
Laudian  press  teemed  with  holy  works,  setting  the  highest  of 
pure  standards  before  its  readers,  and  exhorting  to  the  following 
of  a  holy  life ;  but  this  life  was  looked  upon  rather  as  a  spiritual 
luxury  and  privilege,  to  which  high  and  refined  natures 4  ihight 
well  endeavour  to  attain,  rather  than  as  absolutely  necessary  to 
salvation.  With  this  view  the  Church  regarded  human  error 
with  tolerance ;  and  amusements  and  enjojonents  with  approba- 
tion, and  as  deserving  the  highest  sanctions  of  religion.  lugle- 
sant's  Christianity,  therefore,  was  ignorant  of  doctrine  and 
dogma  of  almost  every  kind,  and  concentrated  itself  altogether 
on  what  may  be  called  the  Idea  of  Christ,  that  is,  a  lively  con- 
ception of  and  attraction  to  the  person  of  the  Saviour.  This 
idela, — which  comes  to  men  in  diiferent  ways,  and  which  came 
to  Inglesant  for  the  fiirst  time  in  the  sacrament  at  Gidding, 
being,  I  should  suppose,  a  purely  intellectual  one, — would  no 
doubt  be  inefficient  and  transitory,  were  it  not  for  the  unique 
and  mysterious  power  of  attraction  which  it  undoubtedly  pos- 
sesses. In  the  pursuit  of  this  idea  he  received  little  assistance 
from  Dr.  More.  The  school  to  which  the  Doctor  belonged, — 
the  Christian  Pjiatonists, — had  no  tendency  to  that  exclusive 
worship  of  the  person  of  Jesus,  which,  in  some  religious  schools, 
has  almost  superseded  the  worship  of  God.  This  he  had  received 
from  the  Jesuits,  and  the  mystical  books  of  Catholic  devotion 
which  liad  had  so  great  an  influence  over  him.  The  Jesuits, 
with  all  their  faults,  held  fast  by  the  motive  of  their  founder, 
and  the  worship  of  Jesus  was  by  them  carried  to  its  fullest 
extent.  Dr.  More's  theology  was  more  that  of  a  philosophical 
Deism,  into  which  the  person  and  attributes  of  Christ  entered 
as  a  part  of  an  universal  scheme,  in  which  the  universe,  man- 
kind, the  all-pervadiiig  Spirit  of  God,  and  the  objects  of  thought 
and  sense,  pla3'ed  distinct  and  conspicuous  parts. 

One  fine  and  warm  day  in  the  early  spring,  Inglesant  and  the 
Doctor  were  walking  in  the  garden  at  the  side  of  the  house 
bordering  on  the  chase  and  park.  The  wide  expanse  of  grassy 
upland  stretched  before  them;  overhead  the  arch  of  heaven, 
chequered  by  the  w^hite  clouds,  was  fidl  of  life  and  light  and 
motion :  across  the  water  of  the  lakes  the  Chui'ch  bells,  rung 


188  JOHN  inglesant;  [chap.  xvii. 

for  amusement  by  the  village  lads,  came  to  the  ear  softened 
and  yet  enriched  in  tone;  tlie  spring  air,  fanned  by  a  fresh 
breeze,  refreshed  the  spirits  and  the  sense.  The  Doctor  began, 
as  upon  a  favourite  themo,  to  speak  of  his  great  sense  of  the 
power  and  benefit  of  the  I'resh  air. 

"I  would  always,"  he  said,  "be  ^ sub  dio,'  if  it  were 
possible.  Is  there  anything  more  delicious  to  the  touch  than 
the  soft  cool  air  playing  on  our  heated  temples,  recruiting  and 
refiigerating  the  spirits  and  the  blood  1  I  can  read,  discourse, 
or  til  ink  nowhere  as  well  as  in  some  arbour,  where  the  cool  air 
rustles  through  the  moving  leaves ;  and  what  a  raptm'e  of  mind 
does  such  a  scene  as  this  always  inspire  within  me  !  To  a  free 
and  divine  spirit  how  lovely,  how  magnificent,  is  this  state  for 
the  sold  of  man  to  be  in,  when,  the  life  of  God  inactuating  her, 
she  travels  through  heaven  and  earth,  and  unites  with,  and 
after  a  sort  feels  herself  the  life  and  soul  of  this  whole  world, 
even  as  God !  This  indeed  is  to  become  Deiform — not  by 
imagination,  but  by  union  of  life.  God  doth  not  ride  me 
whither  I  know  not,  but  discoiu-seth  with  me  as  a  friend,  and 
speaks  to  me  in  such  a  dialect  as  I  can  understand  fully, — 
namely,  the  outward  world  of  His  creatures ;  so  that  I  am  in 
fact  '  Incola  coeli  in  teri-d,'  an  inhabitant  of  paradise  and  heaven 
upon  earth ;  and  I  may  soberly  confess  that  sometimes,  walking 
abroad  after  my  studies,  I  have  been  almost  mad  with  pleasure, 
— the  ^.ffect  of  nature  upon  my  soul  having  been  inexpressibly 
ravishing,  and  beyond  what  I  can  convey  to  you." 

Inglesant  said  that  such  a  state  of  mind  was  most  blessed 
and  much  to  be  desired ;  but  that  few  could  hope  to  attain  to 
it,  and  to  many  it  would  seem  a  fantastic  enthusiasm. 

"  No,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  I  am  not  out  of  my  wits,  as  some 
may  fondly  interpret  me,  in  this  divine  freedom ;  but  the  love 
of  God  compelleth  me;  and  though  you  yoiu-self  know  the 
extent  of  fancy,  when  phantoms  seem  real  external  objects,  yet 
here  the  principle  of  my  opponents,  the  Quakers  (who,  it  may 
be,  are  nearer  to  the  purity  of  Christianity — for  the  life  and 
power  of  it — than  many  others),  is  the  most  safe  and  reason- 
able,— to  keep  close  to  the  Light  within  a  man." 

"  You  agree  with  the  Quakers,  then,  in  some  points  ?"  said 
Inglesant. 

"  They  have  indeed  many  excellent  points,  and  very  nobly 
Christian,  which  I  wish  they  would  disencumber  from  such 


CHAP.  XVII.]  A  ROMANCE.  189 

things  as  make  them  seem  so  uncouth  and  ridiculous ;  but  the 
reason  our  lady  has  taken  so  to  them  as  to  change  some  of  her 
servants  for  Quakers,  and  to  design  to  change  more,  is  that 
they  prove  lovers  of  quiet  and  retirement,  and  they  fit  the 
circumstances  that  she  is  in,  that  cannot  endure  any  ncise, 
better  than  others  ;  for  the  weight  of  her  affliction  lies  so  heavy 
upon  her,  that  it  is  incredible  how  very  seldom  she  can  endure 
any  one  in  her  chamber ;  and  she  finds  them  so  still,  quiet,  and 
serious,  that  their  company  is  very  acceptable  to  her ;  and  she 
is  refreshed  by  the  accounts  of  their  trials  and  consolations,  and 
their  patience  and  support  under  great  distress.  Baron  Van 
Helmont  frequents  their  meetings." 

"  What  do  you  think  of  the^'Baron  1" 

"  I  think  he  knows  as  little  of  himself,  truly  and  really,  as 
one  who  had  never  seen  him  in  his  life." 

Inglesant  did  not  try  to  penetrate  into  this  oracular  re- 
sponse ;  but  said, — 

"  Have  you  seen  Mr.  Fox,  the  famous  Quaker  1" 

"Yes ;  I  saw  him  once,"  replied  the  Doctor ;  " and  in  con- 
versation with  him  I  felt  myself,  as  it  were,  turned  into  brass, 
so  much  did  his  spirit  and  perversity  oppress  mine." 

"  There  are  some  men,"  the  Doctor  went  on,  after  a  pause — 
but  Inglesant  did  not  know  of  whom  he  was  thinking — "  that 
by  a  divine  sort  of  fate  are  virtuous  and  good,  and  this  to  a 
very  great  and  heroical  degree ;  and  come  into  the  world  rather 
for  the  good  of  others,  and  by  a  divine  force,  than  through  their 
own  proper  fault,  or  any  immediate  or  necessary  congruity  of 
their  natm-es.  All  which  is  agreeable  to  that  opinion  of  Plato, 
that  some  descend  hither  to  declare  the  being  and  natm-e  of 
the  gods,  and  for  the  greater  health,  purity,  and  perfection  of 
this  lower  world.  I  would  fain  believe,  Mr.  Inglesant,"  he 
continued,  to  the  other's  great  surprise,  "  that  you  are  one  of 
those.  Ever  since  I  first  saw  you  I  liave  had  some  thought  of 
this ;  and  the  more  I  see  of  you  the  more  I  hope  and  believe 
that  some  such  work  as  this  is  reserved  for  you.  You  have, 
what  is  very  happy  for  you,  what  I  call  an  ethereal  sort  of 
body — to  use  the  Pythagoric  phrase — even  in  this  life,  a  mighty 
purity  and  plenty  of  the  animal  spirits,  which  you  may  keep 
lucid  by  that  conduct  and  piety  by  which  you  may  govern 
yourself.  And  this  makes  it  all  the  more  incumbent  on  you  to 
have  a  great  care  to  keep  in  order  this  luciform  vehicle  of  the 


190  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [chap.  XVIII. 

soul,  as  the  Platouists  call  it ;  for  there  is  a  sanctity  of  body 
which  the  sensually-minded  do  not  so  much  as  dream  of.  And 
this  divine  body  should  be  cultivated  as  well  as  the  divine  life ; 
for  by  how  much  any  person  partakes  more  of  righteousness 
and  virtue,  he  hath  also  a  greater  measure  of  this  divine  body 
or  celestial  matter  within  himself;  he  throws  off  the  baser 
affections  of  the  earthly  body,  and  replenishes  his  inner  man 
with  so  much  larger  draughts  of  ethereal  or  celestial  matter ; 
and  to  incite  you  still  more  to  this  effort,  you  have  only  to 
consider  that  the  oracle  of  God  is  not  to  be  heard  but  in  His 
holy  temple,  that  is  to  say,  in  a  good  and  holy  man,  thoroughly 
sanctified  in  spirit,  soul,  and  body." 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Shortly  after  the  conversation  recorded  in  the  previous  chapter, 
Inglesant,  who  appeared  completely  restored  to  health, — thanks 
to  the  Baron  Van  Helmont  and  to  rest  of  body, — left  Oulton, 
and,  without  going  to  London,  went  to  Rye,  and  sailed  thence 
to  France,  where  he  arrived  about  the  middle  of  May  1651. 
He  had  taken  a  passage  in  a  vessel  sailing  to  Dieppe,  and  from 
thence  he  posted  to  Paris,  this  route  being  thought  much  safer 
thnn  the  one  through  Calais,  which  was  much  infested  by 
robl)ers. 

He  found  Paris  full  of  the  fugitive  Royalists  in  a  state  of 
distress  and  destitution,  which  was  so  great,  that  on  the  Queen 
of  England's  going  to  St.  Germain's  on  one  occasion,  her  credi- 
tors threatened  to  arrest  her  coach.  The  young  King  Cliarles 
was  in  Scotland,  previous  to  his  march  into  England,  which 
terminated  in  the  battle  of  Worcester.  Inglesant  was  well  re- 
ceived by  the  Royalists  to  whom  he  made  himself  known  on  his 
arrival.  The  Glamorgan  negotiations  were  by  this  time  pretty 
well  understood  among  the  Royalists,  and  Inglesant's  conduct 
fairly  well  appreciated.  He  had  the  reputation  of  being  a  use- 
ful and  trustworthy  agent,  and  as  such  was  well  received  by  the 
heads  of  the  party.  He  ppesented  himself  at  the  Louvre,  where 
the  Queen  was,  who  received  him  gi'aciously,  and  expressed  a 
wish  that  he  would  remain  in  Paris,  as  she  had  been  speaking 
not  many  days  ago  with  Father  St.  Clare  concerning  him.    Ingle- 


CHAP.,  XVIII.]  A  ROMANCE.  191 

sant  inquii'ed  where  the  Jesuit  was,  and  was  told,  at  St.  Ger- 
main's with  the  French  Court,  and  that  he  would  be  in  Paris 
again  shortly.  After  leaving  the  Queen,  Inglesant  applied  to 
the  merchants  with  whom  his  money  was  to  have  been  lodged ; 
but  found  that  by  some  misunderstanding  a  much  smaller  sum  had 
arrived  than  he  had  expected.  Such  as  it  was,  however,  he 
was  able  from  it  to  make  advances  to  the  Royalist  gentlemen, 
many  of  whom  of  the  highest  rank  were  in  absolute  distress ; 
and  he  even  advanced  a  considerable  sum  indirectly  to  the 
Queen,  and,  through  the  Duke  of  Ormond,  to  the  young  Duke 
of  Gloucester. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  enter  into  any  details  with  regard  to 
the  state  of  France  or  the  French  Court  at  that  time.  The 
Court  had  been  obliged  to  leave  Paris  some  time  before,  owing 
to  the  violence  of  the  populace,  and  was  at  present  much  em- 
barrassed from  the  same  cause.  It  was  therefore  quite  unable 
to  atford  any  help  to  the  distressed  fugitives  from  England,  had 
it  wished  to  do  so,  and  even  the  Queen  Henrietta, — a  daughter 
of  France, — could  scarcely  obtain  assistance,  and  was  reduced 
to  the  greatest  pecuniary  distress.  The  Duke  of  Ormond  parted 
with  his  last  jewel  to  procure  money  for  the  use  of  the  Duke  of 
Gloucester,  whose  guardian  he  was,  and  the  inferior  Royalists 
were  reduced  to  still  greater  necessities.  No  sooner,  therefore, 
was  it  known  that  Inglesant  had  means  at  his  disposal,  than  he 
became  once  more  a  person  of  the  greatest  consequence,  and 
every  one  sought  him  out,  or,  if  not  before  acquainted  with  him, 
desired  an  introduction.  He  frequented  the  Chapel  of  Sir 
Richard  Browne,  who  had  been  ambassador  from  Charles  the 
First,  and  still  retained  his  privileges,  his  chapel,  and  his  house- 
hold, being  accredited  from  the  young  fugitive  King  to  the  French 
Court,  This  was  the  only  Anglican  place  of  worship  in  Paris, 
or  indeed  at  that  time,  perhaps,  in  the  world.  Ordinations 
were  performed  there,  and  it  was  frequented  by  the  Kmg  and 
the  two  young  Princes,  the  Duke  of  York  and  the  Duke  of 
Gloucester,  and  by  all  the  Royalist  fugitives  then  in  Paris. 

Inglesant  was  the  more  welcome,  as  many  of  the  Royalist 
gentlemen  who  had  any  money  at  all,  refused  to  stay  in  Paris, 
where  there  were  so  many  claims  upon  them,  but  went  on  to 
other  countries,  especially  Italy.  He  found  many  of  these 
gentlemen  in  a  veiy,  excited  state,  owing  to  the  efforts  of  the 
Queen  Mother  to  discom-ag^  the  English  Church,  and  to  win 


192  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [chap.  XYIil 

over  pei-verts  to  Romanism.  The  Kiii^  and  the  Diike,  it  is 
true,  received  the  sacrament  in  the  Ambassador's  Chapel,  par- 
taking of  it  together  before  the  other  communicants,  Lord  Biron, 
Inglesant's  old  friend,  and  Lord  Wilmot,  holding  a  white  cloth 
before  the  two  Princes;  but  the  Queen  Mother  was  making 
every  effort  to  pervert  the  young  Duke  of  Gloucester,  and 
throwing  all  the  weight  of  her  influence  and  patronage  on  the 
nde  of  the  Papists.  Several  of  the  maids  of  honour  had  been 
discharged  shortly  before  Inglesant's  arrival  in  Paris,  for  refus- 
ing to  conform  to  the  Romish  Mass.  Dr.  Cosin,  the  Dean  of 
Peterborough,  a  profound  Ritualist,  but  at  the  same  time 
devoted  to  the  Anglican  Church,  had  preached  a  sermon  in  the 
Chapel  comforting  and  supporting  these  ladies.  Inglesant 
being  with  the  Queen  at  the  Palais  Royal,  one  morning  as  she 
was  going  to  her  private  mass,  was  commanded  to  accompany 
her;  and  upon  his  readily  comi^lying,  the  Queen  afterwards 
spoke  to  him  on  the  subject  of  religion,  inquiring  why  he,  who 
had  so  long  been  so  closely  connected  with  the  Catholic  Church, 
did  not  become  one  of  its  members.  Inglesant  pleaded  that 
the  Jesuit,  Father  St.  Clare,  had  discouraged  him  from  joining 
the  Papists  as  not  convenient  in  the  position  in  which  he  had 
been  placed.  The  Queen  said  that  the  reasons  which  actuated 
the  Father  did  not  any  longer  exist,  but  that  she  would  wait 
till  she  could  take  his  advice;  in  the  meantime  requesting 
Inglesant  to  attend  the  Romish  services  as  much  as  possible, 
which  he  promised  to  do.  As  a  matter  of  choice,  he  preferred 
the  English  communion  to  the  mass,  but  he  regarded  both  as 
means  of  sacramental  grace,  and  endeavoured  at  low  mass  to 
bring  his  mind  into  the  same  devout  stillness  and  condition  of 
adoration  as  at  a  communion.  It  would  appear  that  about  this 
time  he  must  have  been  formally  received  into  the  Romish 
Chiirch,  for  he  confessed  and  received  the  sacrament  at  low 
mass  ;  but  no  mention  of  the  ceremony  occurs,  and  it  is  possible 
that  the  priests  received  instructions  respecting  him,  while  there 
is  clear  proof  that  he  attended  t^^e  services  at  the  Ambassador's 
Chapel,  and  once  at  any  rate  partook  of  the  sacrament  there. 

Here  he  met  with  Mi.  Hobbes,  who  expressed  himself 
pleased  to  see  him,  and  entered  into  long  discourses  with  him 
respecting  the  Glamorgan  negotiations  and  the  late  King's 
policy  generally, — discom-ses  which  were  very  instructive  to 
Inglesant,  though  he  felt  a  greater  repugnance  to  the  man  than 


CHAP.  XVIII. ]  A  ROMANCE.  ,     103 

when  he  formerly  met  him  in  London.  Tlie  religions  thoughts 
which  had  filled  Inglesant's  mind  at  Oulton  were  tar  from  for- 
gotten, and  when  he  arrived  in  Paris,  his  first  feeling  had  been 
one  of  dissatisfaction  at  finding  himself  at  once  involved  again 
in  political  ii]J:rigue  ;  but  his  affection  for  the  Jesuit,  apart  from 
his  desire  to  discover  the  Italian  by  his  ncieaus,  made  him  desire 
to  meet  him ;  and  he  continued  in  Paris,  waiting  with,  this 
intention,  when  an  event  occurred  which  altogether  diverted  liia 
thoughts. 

He  spent  his  time  in  many  ways, — partly  in  acts  of  religion, 
partly  in  studies,  frequenting  several  lectures,  both  in  letters 
and  in  science,  such  as  Mons.  Febus's  coiu^se  of  chemistry.  He 
also  frequented  the  tennis  court  in  the  Rue  Verdelet,  where  the 
King  of  England,  and  the  princes  and  nobles,  both  of  that 
country  and  of  France,  amused  themselves.  He  had  been  at 
this  latter  place  one  morning,  and  something  having  happened 
to  prevent  the  gentleman  who  had  arranged  to  play  the  match 
from  appearing,  Ingiesant,  who  was  a  good  tennis  player,  had 
been  requested  to  take  his  place  against  Mons.  Saumeurs,  the 
great  French  player.  There  was  a  large  and  brilliant  attend- 
ance to  watch  the  play,  and  Ingiesant  exerted  himself  to  the 
utmost,  so  much  so,  that  he  earned  the  applause  and  thanks 
of  tlie  company  for  the  brilliant  match  played  before  them. 
Having  at  last  been  beaten,  which  occurred  probably  when  the 
great  player  considered  he  had  afforded  sufficient  amusement  to 
the  spectators,  Ingiesant  turned  to  leave  the  court,  having 
resumed  his  dress  and  sword,  when  he  was  accosted  by  an 
English  nobleman  whom  he  very  slightly  knew ;  who,  no  doubt 
influenced  by  the  applause  and  attention  which  Ingiesant  had 
excited,  asked  him  to  dine  with  him  at  a  neighbouring  place  of 
entertainment.  After  dinner  the  gentleman  told  Ingiesant  that 
he  was  in  the  habit,  together  with  many  other  English  who 
wished  to  perfect  their  knowledge  of  French,  of  resorting  to  one 
or  other  of  the  convents  of  Paris,  to  talk  with  the  ancient 
sisters,  whose  business  it  was  to  receive  strangers,  and  had 
several  such  acquaintances  with  whom  he  might  "  chat  at  the 
grates,  for  the  nuns  speak  a  quaint  dialect,  and  have  besides 
most  commonly  aU  the  news  that  passes,  which  they  are  ready 
to  discoiu-se  upon  as  long  as  you  choose  to  listen,  whereby  you 
gain  a  greater  knowledge  of  the  most  correct  and  refined 
manner  of  speaking  of  al'  manner  of  common  and  trifling  events 

o 


194  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [chap.  xviiL 

than  you  could  otherwise  gain."  He  said  that  he  had  received 
a  parcel  of  EngUsh  gloves  and  knives  from  England  the  day 
before,  some  of  which  he  intended  that  afternoon  taking  to  one 
of  his  "  Devota  "  (as  they  call  a  friend  in  a  convent,  he  said,  in 
Spain),  and  would  take  Inglesant  with  him  if  the  latter  wished 
to  come.     Inglesant  \yillingly  consented,  and  they  went  to  a 

convent  of  the in  the  Rue  des  Torres  Fortes.     They  found 

the  ancient  nun — a  little  courtly  old  lady — as  amusing  and 
pleasant  as  they  expected ;  and  she  was  on  her  part  apparently 
equally  pleased  with  Lord  Cheney's  presents,  and  with  Ingle- 
sant's  com-teous  discourse  and  good  French.  She  invited  Ingle- 
sant to  visit  her  again,  but  the  next  day  he  received  a  message 
which  was  brought  by  a  servant  of  the  convent,  who  had  foimd 
his  lodgings  with  some  diflficulty  through  Lord  Cheney,  request- 
ing him  to  come  to  the  convent  at  once.  It  lay  in  a  retired 
and  rather  remote  part  of  the  city,  and  but  for  his  friend's 
introduction  he  would  never  have  visited  it.  Thinking  the 
message  somewhat  strange,  he  complied  with  the  request,  and 
in  the  afternoon  found  himself  again  in  the  convent  parlour. 
The  nun  came  immediately  to  the  grate. 

"  Ah,  monsieur,"  she  said,  "  I  am  glad  that  you  are  come. 
You  think  it  strange,  doubtless,  that  I  should  send  for  you  sc 
soon ;  but  I  spoke  of  you  last  night  to  an  inmate  of  this  house, 
who  is  a  compatriot  of.  yours,  and  who,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  is 
very  ill, — nay,  I  fear  at  the  point  of  death, — and  she  told  me 
she  had  known  you  very  well — ah,  very  well  indeed — in  times 
past;  and  she  entreated  me  to  send  to  you  if  I  coiril  find  out 
yom'  residence.  I  only  knew  of  you  through  Milord  Chene, 
but  I  sent  to  him." 

"What  is  this  lady's  name,  madame?"  said  Inglesant,  who, 
even  then,  did  not  guess  who  it  was. 

"  Ah,  her  name,"  said  the  nun ;  "  her  name  is  Collette — 
Mademoiselle  Marie  Collette." 

She  had  the  door  in  the  grate  opened  for  Inglesant,  and 
took  him  through  the  house,  and  past  a  court  planted  with 
trees,  to  a  small  and  quiet  room  overlooking  the  distant  wood- 
lands. There,  upon  a  little  bed — her  face  white,  her  hands 
and  form  wasted  to  a  shadow,  only  her  wonderful  eyes  the  same 
as  ever — lay  Mary  Collet,  her  face  lighting  up  and  her  weak 
hands  trembling  as  he  came  in.  On  his  knees  by  the  bedside, 
hi,«  face  buried  in  his  hands,  her  white  fingers  playing  over  his 


CHAP.  XVIII.]  A  ROMANCK  195 

hair,  Inglesant  could  not  speak,  dare  not  even  look  up.  The 
old  nun  looked  on  kindly  for  some  few  minutes,  and  then  left 
them. 

Mary  was  the  first  to  speak,  and  as  she  spoke,  Inglesant 
raised  his  heai  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  hers,  keeping  down  the 
torrent  of  grief  that  all  but  mastered  him  as  he  might. 

.  She  spoke  to  him  of  her  joy  at  seeing  him — she  so  lonely 
and  lost  in  a  foreign  land,  separated  from  all  her  friends  and 
family, — not  knowing  indeed  where  they  were ;  of  the  sufferingsa 
and  hardship  she  had  passed  through  since  they  had  left  Giddiug 
— hardships  which  had  caused  the  fever  of  which  she  lay  dying 
as  she  spoke.  She  had  come  to  Paris  after  parting  from  her 
uncle  in  Brittany,  where  they  had  suffered  much  deprivation 
^vith  the  Lady  Blount,  and  had  been  received  into  this  convent, 
where  she  had  meant  to  take  the  veil ;  but  the  fever  grew  upon 
her,  and  the  physicians  at  last  gave  her  no  hope  of  recovery. 
There  she  had  lain  day  after  day,  tended  by  the  kind  nuns  with 
every  care,  yet  growing  weaker  and  more  weary — longing  for 
some  voice  or  face  of  her  own  country  or  of  former  days.  While 
she  had  been  well  enough  to  listen,  the  nuns  had  told  her  all 
the  little  scraps  of  news  relating  to  her  own  countrymen  and 
to  the  Queen  which  had  reached  them ;  but  Inglesaut's  arrival 
was  not  likely  to  be  among  these,  and  Mary  had  heard  nothing 
of  his  being  in  Paris  till  the  night  before,  when  the  kindly  old 
nun,  finding  her  a  little  better  than  usual,  had  thought  to  amuse 
her  by  speaking  of  the  pleasant  young  Englishman  who  spoke 
French  so  well,  and  whose  half  foreign  name  bhe  could  easily 
remember,  and  who.  Lord  Cheney  had  told  her,  had  been  one 
of  the  most  faithful  servants  of  the  poor  murdered  King. 

The  start  of  the  djing  girl  before  her,  her  flushed  face  as 
she  raised  herself  in  bed  and  threw  herself  into  her  friend's 
arms,  entreating  her  that  this  old  friend,  the  dearest  friend  she 
had  ever  known — ah !  dearer  now  than  ever — might  be  sent 
for  at  once  while  she  had  life  and  strength  to  speak  to  him, 
showed  the  nun  that  this  was  yet  again  a  reacting  of  that  old 
story  that  never  tires  a  woman's  heart.  Tlie  nuns  were  not 
strict — far  from  it — and,  even  had  Mary  already  taken  the  veil, 
the  sisters  would  have  thought  little  blame  of  her  even  for 
remembering  that  once  she  di-eamt  of  another  bridegroom  than 
the  heavenly  Spouse.  The  nun  had  promised  to  send  early  in 
the  morning  to  Lord  Cheney,  who,  no  doubt,  knew  the  abode 


196  JOHN  INGLES  ant;  [chap.  XVIII. 

of  his  friend ;  and  IMary,  as  she  finished  telling  all  this  in  her 
low  and  weak  speech,  lay  still  and  quiet,  looking  upon  her  friend 
almost  with  as  calm  and  peaceful  a  glance  of  her  absorbing  eyes 
as  when  she  had  looked  at  him  in  the  garden  parlour  at  Gidding 
years  ago.  He  himself  said  little ;  it  was  not  his  words  she 
wanted,  could  he  have  spoken  them.  That  he  was  there  by 
her,  looking  up  in  her  face,  holding  her  hand,  was  quite  enough. 
At  last  she  said, — 

"  And  that  mission  to  the  Papist  murderers,  Johnny,  you 
did  not  wish  to  bring  them  into  England  of  your  own  accord, 
or  only  .as  a  plot  of  the  Jesuits  1  Surely  you  were  but  the  ser- 
vant of  one  whom  you  coidd  not  discover." 

"  I  had  the  King's  own  commission  for  all  I  did,  for  every 
word  -I.. said,"  said  Inglesant  eagerly — "a  commission  written 
by  himself,  and  signed  in  my  presence,  which  he  gave  me  him- 
self.    That  was  the  paper  the  Lord  Biron  would  not  burn." 

"  I  knew  it  must  be  so,  Johnny ;  my  uncle  told  me  it  must 
be  so.  It  seems  to  me  you  have  served  a  hard  master,  though 
you  do  not  complain.  We  heard  about  the  scaffold  at  Charing 
Cross.  Will  you  serve  yom-  heavenly  Master  as  well  as  you 
have  served  yoiu*  King  f 

"  I  desire  to  serve  Him,  am  seeking  to  serve  Him  even  now, 
but  I  do  not  find  the  way.  Tell  me  how  I  can  serve  Him, 
Mary,  and  I  swear  to  you  I  will  do  whatever  you  shall  say." 

"  He  must  teach  you,  Johnny,  not  I.  I  doubt  not  that 
you  follow  Him  now,  will  serve  Him  hereafter  much  better  than 
I  could  ever  show  you — coidd  ever  do  myself.  Whatever  men 
may  think  of  the  path  you  have  already  chosen,  no  one  can  say 
you  have  not  walked  in  it  steadily  to  the  end.  Only  walk  in 
this  way  as  steadily,  Johnny, — only  follow  your  heart  as  un- 
flinchingly, when  it  points  you  to  Him.  I  will  do  nothing 
night  and  day  while  I  live,  Johnny,  but  pray  to  Jesus  that  He 
may  lead  you  to  Himself." 

The  old  familiar  glamour  that  shed  such  a  holy  radiance  on 
the  woods  and  fields  of  Gidding,  now,  to  Inglesant's  senses, 
filled  the  little  convent  room.  The  light  of  heaven  that  entered 
the  open  window  with  the  perfume  of  the  hawthorn  was  lost  in 
the  diviner  radiance  that  shone  from  this  girl's  face  into  the 
depths  of  his  being,  and  bathed  the  place  where  she  was  in 
light.  His  heart  ceased  to  beat,  and  he  lay,  as  in  a  trance,  to 
behold  the  glory  of  God. 


CHAP,  xix.l  A  ROMANCE.  197 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Ingles  ANT  was  present  at  the  funeral  in  the  cemetery  of  the 
convent,  and  caused  a  white  marble  cross  to  be  set  over  tlie 
grave.  He  remained  in  his  lodgings  several  days,  melancholy 
and  alone.  His  whole  nature  was  shaken  to  the  foundation, 
and  life  was  made  more  holy  and  solemn  to  him  than  ever 
before.  The  burden  of  worldly  matters  became  intolerable,  and 
the  coil  that  had  been  about  his  hfe  so  long  grew  more  oppres- 
sive till  it  seemed  to  stifle  his  soul.  He  desired  to  listen  to  the 
Divine  Voice,  but  the  voice  seemed  silent,  or  to  speak  only  the 
language  of  worldly  plans  and  schemes.  He  desired  to  live  h. 
life  of  holiness,  but  the  only  life  that  seemed  possible  to  hin; 
was  one  of  business  and  intrigue.  What  was  this  life  of  holi- 
ness that  men  ought  to  leadl  Could  it  be  followed  in  the 
world  'i  Or  must  he  retire  to  some  monastic  solitude  to  culti- 
vate it ;  and  was  it  certain  that  it  would  flourish  even  there  1 
It  seemed  more  and  more  impossible  for  him  to  find  it ;  he  was 
repidsed  and  turned  back  upon  his  worldly  life  at  every  attempt 
he  made.  He  almost  resolved  to  give  up  the  Jesuit,  and  to 
seek  some  more  spiritual  guide.  He  remembered  Cressy,  who 
had  become  a  Romanist,  and  a  Benedictine  monk  of  the  Monas- 
tery at  Douay,  and  was  at  that  moment  in  Paris. 

When  Inglesant  had  been  last  in  Oxford,  the  secession  of 
Hugh  Paulin  Cressy,  as  he  had  been  named  at  the  f  jnt  in 
Wakefield  Church, — Serenus  de  Cressy,  as  he  called  himself  in 
religion, — had  created  a  painfid  and  disturbed  impression.  A 
Fellow  of  Merton,  the  chaplain  and  friend  of  Lord  Strafi'ord, 
and  afterwards  of  Lord  Falkland,  a  quick  and  accm'ate  disput- 
ant, a  fine  and  persuasive  preacher,  a  man  of  sweet  and  attract- 
ive natm-e,  and  of  natm-al  and  acquired  refinement, — he  was 
one  of  the  leaders  of  the  highest  thought  and  culture  of  the 
University.  When  it  was  known,  theref)re,  that  this  man,  so 
admired  and  beloved,  had  seceded  to  Popery,  the  interest  and 
excitement  were  very  great,  and  one  of  Archbishop  Usher's 
friends  writes  to  him  in  pathetic  words  of  the  loss  of  this  bright 
ornament  of  the  Church,  and  of  the  danger  to  others  which  hia 
example  might  cause. 


198  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [chap.  XIX. 

He  was  at  present  in  Paris,  where  the  conjuncture  of  re- 
ligious affairs  was  very  exciting.  There  was  much  in  the  dis- 
cussions which  were  going  on  singularly  fitted  to  Inglesant's 
state  of  mind,  and  in  some  degree  conducive  to  it.  The  Jesuits, 
both  in  Rome  and  Paris,  were  occupied  as  they  had  been  for 
several  years,  in  that  great  controversy  with  the  followers  of 
Jansenius,  which,  a  few  years  afterwards,  culminated  in  those 
discussions  and  that  condemnation  in  the  Sorbonne  so  graphic- 
ally described  by  Pascal.  We  have  only  to  do  with  it  as  it 
affected  Inglesant,  and  it  is  therefore  not  necessary  to  inquire 
what  were  the  real  reasons  which  caused  the  Jesuits  to  oppose 
the  Jansenists.  The  point  at  which  the  controversy  had  arrived, 
when  Inglesant  was  in  Paris,  was  one  which  touched  closely 
upon  the  topics  most  interesting  to  his  heart.  This  was  the 
doctrine  of  sufficient  grace.  The  Jesuits,  on  this  as  in  all  other 
matters,  had  taken  that  side  which  is  undoubtedly  most  pleasing 
to  the  frailty  of  the  human  heart, — an  invariable  policy,  to 
which  they  owed  their  supremacy  over  the  popular  mind. 

When  the  faithful  came  to  the  theologians  to  inquire  what 
was  the  true  state  of  human  nature  since  its  corruption,  they 
received  St.  Augustine's  answer,  confirmed  by  St.  Bernard  and 
St.  Thomas  Aquinas,  and  finally  adopted  by  the  Jansenists, — 
"  That  human  nature  has  no  more  sufficient  grace  than  God  is 
pleased  to  bestow  upon  it,  and  that  fresh  efficacious  grace  must 
constantly  be  given  by  God,  which  grace  God  does  not  give  to. 
all,  and  without  which  no  man  can  be  saved."  In  opposition 
to  this,  the  Jesuits,  about  the  time  of  the  Reformatio'n,  'came 
forward  -with  what  was  called  a  new  doctrine, — that  sufficient 
grace  is  given  to  all  men,  as  men,  but  so  far  compliant  with 
free-will  that  this  latter  makes  the  former  efficacious  or  ineffica- 
cious at  its  choice,  without  any  new  supply  from  God.  The 
Jansenists  retorted  that  this  doctrine  rendered  unnecessary  the 
efficacious  grace  of  Jesus  Christ ;  but  that  this  does  not  follow 
is  plain,  for  this  efficacious  grace  of  God  that  is  given  to  all  men 
once  for  all,  may  be  owing  to  the  -sacrifice  of  Christ.  To  many 
natures  this  universal  gracious  beneficent  doctrine  of  all-pervad- 
ing grace,  which  includes  all  mankind,  was  much  more  pleasing 
than  the  doctrine  of  the  necessity  of  special  grace,  involving 
spiritual  assumption  in  those  who  possess  it,  or  say  they  do, 
and  bitter  uncertainty  and  dei^ression  in  humble,  self-doubting, 
and  thoughtful!  minds.     It  resembled  also  the  doctrines  of  the 


CHAP.  XIX.]  A  ROMANCE.  199 

Laiidian  School,  in  which  Inglesant  had  been  brought  up.  So 
attractive  indeed  was  it,  that  the  Benedictines  were  compelled 
to  profess  it,  and  to  pretend  to  side  with  the  Jesuits,  while  in 
reality  hating  their  doctrine. 

When  Inglesant  remembered  Cressy,  and  remembered  also 
that  he  belonged  to  the  Benedictines,  the  polished  and  learned 
cultivators  of  the  useM  arts,  and  was  told  that  Cressy  had 
chosen  this  order  that  he  might  have  leisure  and  books  to  pro- 
secute his  studies  and  his  writings,  he  conceived  great  hope  that 
from  him  he  should  learn  the  happy  mean  he  was  in  search  of, 
between  the  worldliuess  of  the  Jesiuts  on  the  one  hand,  and  the 
narrow  repidsiveness  of  the  Mendicant  orders  and  the  Calvinists 
on  the  other.  In  this  frame  of  mind  he  sought  an  interview 
with  Cressy.  The  directions  of  the  Jesuits  and  of  the  Laudian 
School  seemed  to  Inglesant  to  have  failed ;  to  have  associated 
himself  with  the  Jansenists  or  Calvinists  woidd  have  been  dis- 
tasteful to  him,  and  almost  impossible.  \  He  sought  in  the 
Benedictine  monk  that  compromise  which  the  heart  of  man  is 
perpetually  seeking  between  the  things  of  this  world  and  the 
things  of  God.  ^  But  though  for  the  time  the  influence  of  the 
training  of  his  life  was  somewhat  shaken,  it  was  far  from 
removed,  and  an  event  occurred  which,  even  before  he  saw 
Cressy,  reforged  the  chains  upon  him  to  some  extent.  One 
Sunday  evening,  the  day  before  he  was  to  meet  Cressy,  walking 
along  the  Rue  St.  Martin  from  the  Boulevard  where  he  had 
lodgings,  hetiu"ned  into  the  Jesuits'  Chm'ch  just  as  the  sermon 
had  begun.  The  dim  light  found  its  way  into  the  vast  Chiu-ch 
fi'om  the  stained  windows ;  a  lamp  burning  before  some  shrine 
shone  partially  on  the  preacher,  as  he  stood  in  the  stone  pulpit 
by  a  great  pillar,  in  his  white  surplice  and  rich  embroidered 
stole.  He  was  a  young  man,  thin  and  sad-looking,  and  spoke 
slowly,  and  with  long  parses  and  intervals,  but  with  an  intense 
eagerness  and  pathos  that  went  to  every  heart.  The  first  words 
that  Inglesant  heard,  as  he  reached  the  nearest  unoccupied  place, 
were  these : — 

"  Ah !  if  you  adored  a  God  crowned  with  roses  and  with 
pearls,  it  were  a  matter  nothing  strange;  but  to  prostrate 
yourselves  daily  before  a  crucifix,  charged  with  nails  and  thorns, 
— you  living  in  such  excess  and  superfluity  in  the  flesh,  dissolved 
in  softness, — how  can  that  be  but  cruel'?  Ah,  think  of  that 
crucifix  as  you  lie  warm  in  silken  curtains,  perfumed  with  eau  da 


200  JOHN  INGI ESANT  ;  [CHAP.  XIX. 

nafFe,  as  you  sit  at  dainty  feasts,  as  you  ride  forth  in  the  sun- 
shine in  gallantry.  He  is  cold  and  naked  ;  He  is  alone ;  behind 
Him  the  sky  is  dreary  and  streaked  with  darkening  clouds,  for 
the  night  cometh — the  night  of  God.  His  locks  are  wet  with 
the  driving  rain  ;  His  hair  is  frozen  with  the  sleet ;  His  beauty 
is  departed  from  Him;  all  men  have  left  Him — all  men,  and 
God  also,  and  the  holy  angels  hide  their  faces.  He  is  crowned 
with  thorns,  but  you  with  garlands ;  He  wears  nothing  in  his 
hands  but  piercing  nails;  you  have  rubies  and  diamonds  on 
yours.  Ah  !  will  you  tell  me  you  can  still  be  faithful  though 
in  brave  array  ?  I  give  that  answer  which  Tertullian  gave, — 
'  I  fear  this  neck  snared  with  wreaths  and  fopes  of  pearls  and 
emeralds.  I  fear  the  sword  of  persecution  can  find  no  entrance 
there.'  Ko  !  hear  you  not  the  voice  of  the  crucifix  ?  Follow 
me.  We  are  engaged  to  suifer  by  His  sufferings  as  we  look  on 
Him.  Suffering  is  our  vow  and  profesblon.  Love  which  can- 
not suffer  is  unworthy  of  the  name  of  loi^e." 

***** 

The  next  day,  at  the  appointed  hour,  he  went  to  the  Bene- 
dictine Monastery,  in  the  Rue  de  Vai-rennes,  and  sent  in  his 
name  to  Father  de  Cressy.  He  was  shown,  not  into  the  visitors' 
room,  but  into  a  private  parlour,  where  Cressy  came  to  him 
immediately.  Dressed  in  the  habit  of  his  order,  with  a  lofty 
and  refined  expression,  he  was  a  striking  and  attractive  man ; 
differing  from  the  Jesuit  in  that,  though  both  were  equally  per- 
suasive, the  latter  united  more  power  of  controlling  others  than 
the  appearance  of  Cressy  implied.  He  had  known  Inglesa«t 
slightly  at  Oxford,  and  greeted  him  with  great  cordiality. 

"  I  am  not  sm^prised  that  you  are  come  to  me,  Mr.  Ingle- 
sant,"  he  said,  with  a  most  winning  gesture  and  smile ;  "  De 
Guevera,  who  was  himself  both  a  coiutier  and  a  recluse,  says 
that  the  penance  of  religious  men  was  sweeter  than  the  pleasures 
of  courtiers.  Has  your  experience  brought  you  to  the  same 
conclusion?" 

Inglesant  thanked  him  for  granting  him  an  interview  :  and 
sitting  down,  he  told  him  shortly  the  story  of  his  life,  and  his 
early  partiality  for  the  mystical  theology;  of  his  wishes  and 
attempts;  of  his  desire  to  follow  the  Divine  Master;  and  of 
his  failures  and  discouragements,  his  studies,  his  Pagan  sym- 
pathies ;  and  how  life  and  reality  of  every  kind,  and  inquiry, 
and  the  truth  of  history,  and  philosophy,  even  while  it  sided 


CHAP.  XIX.]  A  ROMANCE.  201 

with  or  supported  rcxigion,  still  seemed  to  hinder  and  oppose  the 
heavenly  walk. 

"  I  do  not  know,  Mr.  Inglesant,"  said  De  Ciessy,  "whether 
your  case  is  easier  or  more  difficult  than  that  of  those  who 
usually  come  to  me  ;  I  have  many  come  to  me  ;  and  they  usuall}^, 
one  and  all,  come  with  the  exact  words  of  the  blessed  gospel  on 
theu-  lips,  '  Sir,  we  woidd  see  Jesus.'  And  I  look  them  in  the 
face  often,  and  wonder,  and  often  find  no  words  to  speak.  See 
Jesus,  I  often  think,  I  do  not  doubt  it  !  who  would  not  wish 
to  see  Him  who  is  the  fulness  of  all  perfection  that  the  heart 
and  intellect  ever  conceived,  in  whom  all  creation  has  its  centre, 
all  the  troubles  and  sorrows  of  life  have  their  cm'e,  all  the  long- 
ings of  carnal  men  their  fruition  1  But  why  come  to  me  ?  Is 
He  not  walking  to  and  fro  on  the  earth  continually,  in  every 
act  of  charity  and  self-sacrifice  that  is  done  among  men  ?  Is 
He  not  oflered  daily  on  every  altar,  preached  continually  from 
every  pulpit?  Why  come  to  me"?  Old  men  of  sixty  and 
seventy  come  to  me  with  these  very  words,  '  Sir,  we  would  see 
Jesus.'  If  the  course  of  sixty  years,  if  the  troubles  and  con- 
fusions of  a  long  life,  if  He  Himself  has  not  revealed  this 
Beatific  Vision  to  them, — how  can  1 1  But  with  you  it  is  very 
difi'erent.  By  your  own  story  I  know  that  you  have  seen  Jesus; 
that  you  know  Him  as  you  know  yom'  dearest  friend.  This 
makes  our  discom^se  at  first  much  the  easier,  for  I  need  waste 
no  words  upon  a  matter  to  enlarge  upon  which  to  you  would 
be  an  insult  to  your  heart.  But  it  makes  it  more  difficult 
afterwards,  when  we  come  to  ask  how  it  is  that,  with  this 
transcendental  knowledge,  you  are  still  dissatisfied,  and  find  life 
BO  difficult  a  path  to  tread.  I  make  no  apology  for  speaking 
plainly ;  such  would  be  as  much  an  insult  to  you  as  the  other. 
You  remind  me  of  the  rich  oratories  I  have  seen  of  some  of  our 
Court  ladies,  where  everything  is  beautifid  and  costly,  but 
where-  a  classic  statue  of  Apollo  stands  by  the  side  of  a  crucifix, 
a  Venus  with  our  Lady,  a  Cupid  near  St.  Michael,  and  a  pair 
of  beads  hanging  on  Mercury's  Caduceus. 

"You  are  like  the  young  man  who  came  to  Jesus,  and 
whom  Jesus  loved,  for  you  have  great  possessions.  You  have 
been  taught  all  that  men  desire  to  know,  and  are  accomplished 
in  aU  that  makes  life  delightful.  You  have  the  knowledge  of 
the  past,  and  know  the  reality  of  men's  power,  and  wisdom, 
and  beauty,  which  they  possess  of  themselves,  and  did  possess 


202  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap.  XI2. 

in  the  old  classic  times.  You  have  culled  l)f  the  tree  of  know- 
ledge,  and  know  good  and  evil :  yea,  the  good  that  belongs  to 
this  world,  and  is  part  of  it,  and  the  strength  and  Avisdom  and 
beauty  of  .the  children  of  this  world ;  yea,  and  the  evil  and 
ignorance  and  folly  of  the  children  of  light.  Let  us  grant — I 
am  willing  to  grant — that  Plato  has  a  purer  spiritual  instinct 
than  St.  Paul.  I  will  grant  that  Lucretius  has  the  wisdom  of 
this  world  with  him;  ay,  and  its  alluring  tongue.  Paul  did 
not  desire  spiritual  insight ;  he  wanted  Jesus.  You  stand  as  a 
god  free  to  choose.  On  the  one  hand,  you  have  the  delights 
of  reason  and  of  intellect,  the  beauty  of  that  wonderfid  creation 
which  God  made,  yet  did  not  keep;  the  charms  of  Divine 
philosophy,  and  the  enticements  of  the  poet's  art ;  on  the  other 
side,  Jesus.  You  know  Him,  and  have  seen  Him.  I  need  say 
no  more  of  His  perfections. 

"I  do  not  speak  to  you,  as  I  might  speak  to  others,  of 
penalties  and  sufferings  hereafter,  in  which,  probably,  you  do 
not  believe.  Nor  do  I  speak  to  you,  as  I  might  to  others,  of 
evidences  that  our  faith  is  true,  of  proofs  that  hereafter  we 
shall  walk  with  Christ  and  the  saints  in  glory.  I  am  willing 
to  grant  you  that  it  may  be  that  we  are  mistaken ;  that  in  the 
life  to  come  we  may  find  we  have  been  deceived ;  nay,  that 
Jesus  Himself  is  in  a  different  station  and  position  to  what  we 
preach.  This  is  nothing  to  your  purpose.  To  those  who  know 
Him  as  you  know  Him,  and  have  seen  Him  as  you  have,  better 
Jesus,  beaten  and  defeated,  than  all  the  universe  besides, 
triumphing  and  crowned.  I  offer  to  you  nothing  but  the 
alternative  which  every  man  sooner  or  later  must  place  before 
himself.  Shall  he  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  the  voice  of  reason,  and 
lay  himself  open  only  to  the  Hght  of  faith?  or  shall  he  let 
human  wisdom  and  human  philosophy  break  up  this  light,  as 
through  a  glass,  and  please  himself  with  the  varied  colours  upon 
the  path  of  life  ?  Every  man  must  choose  ;  and  having  chosen, 
it  is  futile  to  lament  and  regret ;  he  must  abide  by  his  choice, 
and  by  the  different  fniit  it  brings.  You  wish  this  life's  wisdom, 
and  to  walk  AvitlTJJlirist.as^\y.eir;  and'you  af e~your  own  witness 
that  it  cannot  be!  TheHwi)^  cannot  walk  together,  as  you  have 
found.  To  you,  especially,  this  is  the  great  test  and  trial  that 
Christ  expects  of  you  to  the  very  full.  We  of  this  religious 
order  have  given  om'selves  to  learning,  as  you  know ;  nay,  in 
forn\er  years,  to  that  Pagan  learning,  which  is  so  attractive  to 


CHAP,  xix.l  A  ROMANCE.  203 

you,  though  of  late  years  we  devote  ourselves  to  producing 
editions  of  the  Fathers  of  the  Chiu-ch.  But  even  this  you  must 
keep  yourself  from.  To  most  men  this  study  is  no  temptation  : 
to  you  it  is  fatal.  I  put  before  you  yoiu*  life,  with  no  false 
colouring,  no  tampering  with  the  truth.  Come  with  me  to 
Doua^;  you  shall  enter  our  house  according  to  the  strictest 
rule ;  you  shall  engage  in  no  study  that  is  any  delight  or  effort 
to  the  intellect ;  but  you  shall  teach  the  smallest  children  in 
the  schools,  and  visit  the  poorest  people,  and  perform  the  duties 
of  the  household — and  all  for  Christ.  I  promise  you  on  the 
faith  of  a  gentleman  and  a  priest — I  promise  you,  for  I  have 
no  shade  of  doubt — that  in  this  path  you  shall  find  the  satis- 
faction of  the  heavenly  walk ;  you  shall  walk  with  Jesus  day  by 
day,  gi'owing  ever  more  and  more  like  to  Him  ;  and  yoiu:  path, 
without  the  least  fall  or  deviation,  shall  lead  more  and  more 
into  the  light,  until  you  come  unto  the  perfect  day;  and  on 
yom-  death-bed — the  death-bed  of  a  saint — the  vision  of  the 
smile  of  God  shall  sustain  you,  and  Jesus  Himself  shall  meet 
you  at  the  gates  of  eternal  life." 

Every  word  that  Cressy  spoke  went  straight  to  Inglesant's 
conviction,  and  no  single  word  jarred  upon  his  taste.  He 
implicitly  believed  that  what  the  Benedictine  offered  him  he 
should  find.  There  was  no  doubt — could  be  no  doubt — that  it 
was  by  such  choice  as  this  that  such  men  as  Cressy  gained  for 
themselves  a  power  in  the  heavenly  warfare,  and  not  only 
attained  to  the  heavenly  walk  themselves,  but  moved  the  earth 
to  its  foundations,  and  drew  thousands  into  the  ranks  of  Christ. 
He  saw  the  choice  before  him  fairly,  as  Cressy  had  said,  and 
indeed,  it  was  not  for  the  first  time.  Then  his  mind  went  back 
to  his  old  master,  and  to  that  school  where  no  such  thing  as 
this  was  required  of  him,  and  yet  the  heavenly  light  offered  to 
him  as  freely  as  by  this  man.  The  sermon  of  the  night  before 
came  into  his  mind  again ;  siu-ely  where  such  doctrine  as  that 
was  preached,  might  he  not  find  rest  1  It  was  true  that  his 
coining  there,  and  his  confession,  closed  his  Kps  before  Cressy ; 
but  might  he  not  have  been  too  hasty  1  Life  was  not  yet  over 
with  him ;  perchance  he  might  yet  find  what  he  sought  in  some 
other  way.  He  saw  the  path  of  perfect  self-denial  open  before 
him, — renunciation,  not  of  pleasure,  nor  even  of  the  world,  but 
of  himself,  of  his  intellect,  of  his  very  life, — and  distinctly  of 
his  free  choice  he  refused  it.     This  only  may  be  said  for  him : 


204-  JOHN  INGLESANT^  [OHAP.  XIX. 

he  was  convinced  that  every  word  the  Benedictine  had  said  to 
him  was  true, — that  in  the  life  he  offered  him  he  should  follow 
and  find  the  Lord ;  but  he  was  not  equally  convinced  that  it 
was  the  will  of  Christ  that  he  should  accept  this  life,  and  should 
follow  and  find  Him  in  this  way,  and  in  no  other.  Had  he 
been  as  clear  of  this  as  of  the  truth  of  Cressy's  words,  then 
indeed  would  his  turning  away  have  been  a  clear  denial  of 
Jesus  Christ ;  but  it  was  the  voice  of  Cressy  that  spoke  to  him, 
and  not  the  voice  of  Christ ;  it  came  to-  him  with  a  conviction 
and  a  power  all  but  irresistible,  but  it  failed  to  carry  with  it 
the  absolute  conviction  of  the  heavenly  call.  How  could  HI 
The  heavenly  call  itself  must  speak  very  loud  before  it  silences 
and  convinces  the  unwilling  heart. 

He  rose  from  his  seat  before  the  monk,  and  looking  sadly 
down  upon  him  he  said, — 

"  I  believe  all  that  you  say  and  all  that  you  promise,  and 
that  the  heavenly  walk  lies  before  me  in  the  road  that  you  have 
pointed  out ;  but  I  cannot  follow  it — it  is  too  strait.  I  return 
your  kindness  and  your  plainness  with  words  equally  plain; 
and  while  you  think  of  me  as  lost  and  unworthy,  it  may  be 
some  well-earned  satisfaction  to  you  to  remember  that  none  ever 
spoke  truer,  or  nobler,  or  kinder  words  to  any  man  than  you 
have  spoken  to  me." 

"  I  do  not  look  on  you  as  lost,  Mr.  Inglesant, — far  from 
it,"  said  Cressy,  rising  as  he  spoke;  "I  expect  you  will  yet 
witness  a  good  confession  for  Christ  in  the  world  and  in  the 
Court ;  but  I  beheve  you  have  had  to-day  a  more  excellent  way 
shown  you,  which,  but  for  the  trammels  of  your  birth  and 
training,  you  might  have  had  grace  to  walk  in,  for  yoiu-  own 
exceeding  blessedness  and  the  greater  glory  of  the  Lord  Christ. 
I  wish  you  every  benediction  of  this  life  and  of  the  next ;  and 
I  shall  remember  you  at  the  altar  as  a  young  man  who  came  to 
Jesus,  and  whom  Jesus  loves." 

Inglesant  took  his  leave  of  him,  and  left  the  monastery.  Jle 
came  away  very  sorrowful  from  Serenus  de  Cressy.  Whether 
he  also,  at  the  same  time,  was  turning  away  from  Jesus  Christ, 
who  can  tell  ? 

The  next  dav  the  Jesuit  arrived  in  Pai'is. 


CHAi>.  yxl  A  ROMANCE.  205 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Inglesant  was  m  ich  struck  with  the  change  in  the  Jesuit's 
appearance.  He  ^as  worn  and  thin,  and  looked  discouraged 
and  depressed.  H )  was  evidently  extremely  pleased  to  see  hia 
pupil  again,  and  his  manner  was  affectionate  and  even  respectful. 
He  appeared  shaken  and  nervous,  and  Inglesant  fancied  that  he 
was  rather  shy  of  meeting  him ;  but  if  so,  it  soon  passed  off 
under  the  influence  of  the  cordial  greeting  with  which  he  was 
received. 

To  Inglesaut's  inquiry  as  to  where  he  had  been,  the  Jesuit 
answered  that  it  did  not  matter ;  he  had  succeeded  very  imper- 
fectly in  his  mission,  whatever  it  had  been.  He  asked  Inglesant 
whether  he  had  met  with  Sir  Kenelm  Digby,  or  heard  anything 
of  him.  In  reply  to  which  Inglesant  told  him  the  reports 
which  he  had  heard  concerning  him. 

"He  is  mad,"  said  the  Jesuit,  "and  he  is  not  the  less 
dangerous.  He  was  sent  to  Rome  by  the  Queen,  where  he 
made  great  mischief,  and  offended  the  Pope  by  his  insolence. 
He  has  sided  with  the  Parliament  in  England,  and  is  engaged 
on  a  scheme  to  persuade  Cromwell  to  recall  the  King,  and  seat 
him  on  the  throne  as  an  elective  monarch.  The  Queen  does 
not  wish  to  break  with  him  altogether,  both  because  he  has  gi^eat 
influence  with  some  powerful  Catholics,  and  because,  if  nothing 
better  can  be  done,  she  would  perforce  accept  the  elective  mon- 
archy for  her  son.  But  the  scheme  is  chimerical,  and  will  come 
to  nothing.  Cromwell  intends  the  crown  for  himself.  You  see, 
Johnny,"  continued  St.  Clare  with  a  smile,  "all  our  plans  have 
failed.  The  Enghsh  Church  is  destroyed,  and  those  Catholics 
who  always  opposed  it  are  thought  much  of  at  Rome  now,  and 
carry  all  before  them.  I  have  not  altered  my  opinion,  however, 
and  I  shall  die  in  the  same.  But  we  must  wait.  I  do  not 
wish  to  influence  you  any  more,  nor  to  involve  you  any  longer 
in  any  schemes  of  mine,  but  the  Queen  wants  you  to  go  as  an 
agent  to  Rome  in  her  behalf ;  and  it  would  be  of  great  service 
to  me,  and  to  any  plans  which  I  may  in  future  have,  if  I  had 
such  a  friend  and  correspondent  as  yoiu:self  in  that  city.  If  you 
have  no  other  plans,  I  do  not  see  that  you  could  do  nauch  better 


206  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [chap.  XXi 

than  go.  You  shall  have  such  introductions  to  my  friends  there 
— cardinals  and  great  men — that  you  may  live  during  your  stay 
in  the  best  company  and  luxury,  and  without  expense.  One  of 
my  friends  is  the  Cardinal  liinuccini,  brother  of  the  Legate  the 
Bishop  of  Fermo,  whom  you  met  in  Ireland,  and  who,  by  the 
by,  Vt^as  much  impressed  with  you.  You  cannot  fail  to  make 
friends  with  many  who  will  have  it  in  their  power  to  be  of  great 
use  to  you ;  and  you  may  establish  yourself  in  some  lucrative 
post,  either  as  a  lajTuan,  or,  if  you  choose  to  take  orders,  as  a 
priest.  You  will  believe  me,  also,  when  I  say, — what  I  say  to 
very  few, — that  I  am  under  obligations  to  you  which  I  can  never 
repay,  and  nothing  will  give  me  greater  pleasure  than  to  see  you 
rich  and  prosperous,  and  admired  and  powerful  in  the  Roman 
Court.  You  have  the  qualities  and  the  experience  to  command  suc- 
cess. You  will  be  backed  by  the  whole  power  of  my  friends,  with 
whom  to  make  your  fortune  will  be  the  work  of  an  after-dinner's 
talk.  You  will  see  Italy,  and  delight  yourself  in  the  sight  of 
all  those  places  and  antiquities  of  which  we  have  so  often  talked; 
and  with  yoiu-  cultivated  and  religious  tastes  you  will  enter,  with 
the  most  perfect  advantage,  into  that  magic  woM  of  sight  and 
sound  which  the  churches  and  sacred  services  in  Rome  present 
to  the  devout.     I  cannot  see  that  you  can  do  better  than  go." 

Inglesant  sat  looking  at  the  Jesuit  with  a  singular  expres- 
sion in  his  eyes,  which  the  latter  did  not  understand.  Yes, 
surely  it  was  a  very  different  offer  from  that  of  Serenus  de 
Cressy,  yet  Inglesant  did  not  delay  to  answer  from  any  inde- 
cision ;  from  the  moment  the  Jesuit  began  to  speak  he  knew 
that  he  should  go.  But  he  took  a  kind  of  melancholy  pleasure 
in  contrasting  the  two  paths,  the  two  men,  the  difterent  choice 
they  offered  him,  and  in  reading  a  half  sad,  half  sarcastic  com- 
mentary on  himself 

After  a  minute  or  two,  he  said, — 

"  I  thank  you  much  for  your  good-will  and  quite  undeserved 
patronage.  It  is  by  far  too  good  an  offer  to  be  refused,  and  I 
gladly  accept  it.  You  know,  doubtless,  what  has  happened  to 
me,  especially  within  these  last  few  days,  and  that  I  have  no 
friend  left  on  earth  save  yourself;  such  a  journey  as  that  which 
you  propose  to  me  will,  at  the  least,  distract  my  thoughts  from 
such  a  melancholy  fate  as  mine." 

"  I  knew  of  your  brother's  murder,"  said  the  Jesuit ;  "  I 
have  heard  of  ^he  man  before — one  of  those  utterly  lost  and 


CHAP.  XX.]  A  ROMANCE.  207 

villainous  natures  which  no  country  but  Italy  ever  produced. 
Do  you  wish  to  seek  him "?" 

Inglesant  told  him  that  one  of  his  principal  objects  in  stay- 
ing in  Paris  was  to  seek  his  assistance  for  that  purpose ;  and 
that  he  felt  it  a  sacrod  duty,  which  he  owed  to  his  brother,  that 
his  murderer  should  not  escape  unpunished. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  I  cUn  learn  where  he  is,"  said  the  other ; 
"  but  I  do  not  well  see  what  you  can  do  when  you  have  found 
him,  unless  it  happens  to  be  in  a  place  where  you  have  powerful 
friends.  It  is  true  that  he  is  so  generally  known  and  hated  in 
Italy,  that  you  might  easily  get  help  in  punishing  him  should 
you  meet  him  there :  but  he  is  hardly  likely  to  return  to  his 
native  country,  except  for  some  powerful  reason." 

"  If  I  can  do  nothing  else,"  said  Inglesant  bitterly,  ''  I  can 
tell  him  who  I  am  and  shoot  him  dead,  or  run  him  through  the 
body.  He  murdered  my  brother,  just  as  he  had  come  back  to  me 
— to  me  in  prison  and  alone;  and  was  a  loving  friend  and  brother 
to  me,  and  would  have  been  through  life.  Do  you  suppose  that 
I  should  spare  him,  or  that  any  moment  will  be  so  delightful  to 
me  as  the  one  in  which  I  see  him  bleed  to  death  at  my  feet,  as  I 
saw  my  poor  brother,  struck  by  his  hand,  as  he  shall  be  by  mine?" 

The  Jesuit  looked  at  Inglesant  with  sirrprise.  The  terrible 
earnestness  of  his  manner,  and  the  unrelenting  and  grim  pleasure 
he  seemed  to  take  at  the  prospect  of  revenge,  seemed  so  incon- 
sistent with  the  refined  and  religious  tone  of  his  ordinary  char- 
acter, approachmg  almost  to  weakness ;  but  the  next  moment 
he  thought,  "  Why  should  I  wonder  at  it !  The  man  who  has 
gone  through  what  he  did  without  flinching  must  have  a  strength 
of  piu-pose  about  him  far  other  than  some  might  think." 

He  said  aloud, — 

"  Well,  I  doubt  not  I  can  find  him ;  he  is  well  known  in 
France,  in  Spain,  and  in  Italy'  and  if  he  goes  to  Germany  he 
can  be  traced.  But  what  was  the  other  sad  misfortune  you 
spoke  of? — something  within  the  last  few  days,  you  said." 

Inglesant  had  been  looking  fixedly  before  him  since  he  had 
last  spoken,  with  ?•  steady  blank  expression,  which,  since  his 
imprisonment,  his  face  sometimes  wore, — part  of  a  certain  wild- 
ness  in  his  look  which  bespoke  a  mind  ill  at  ease  and  a  confused 
brain.     He  was  following  up  his  prey  to  the  death. 

He  started  at  the  Jesiiit's  question,  and  seemed  to  recollect 
with  an  effort ;  then  he  said,— 


208  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap.  XX. 

Mary  Collet  died  at  the  convent  of  the  Nuns  of  the 


last  week.  I  only  found  her  out  the  night  before ;"  and  as  he 
spoke,  the  contrast  arose  in  his  mind  of  the  death-bed  of  the 
saint-like  girl,  and  the  Italian's  bleeding  body  struck  down  by 
his  revenge.  The  footsteps  of  the  Saviour  he  had  promised  his 
friend  to  follow,  surely  could  not  lead  him  to  such  a  scene  as  that. 
If  this  were  the  first-fruits  of  his  refusal  to  f  >llow  Serenus  de 
Cressy,  surely  he  must  also  have  turned  his  back  on  Christ 
Himself. 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and  the  Jesuit  saw  that 
he  wept.  He  supposed  it  was  simply  from  grief  at  the  death 
of  his  friend,  and  he  was  surprised  at  the  strength  of  his  attach- 
ment. Like  others,  he  had  thought  Inglesant's  love  a  rather 
cool  and  Platonic  passion. 

"  I  always  thought  him  one  of  those  nice  and  coy  lovers," 
he  said  to  himself,  "  who  always  observe  some  defect  in  the 
thing  they  love,  which  weakens  their  passion,  and  shows  them 
that  the  reality  is  so  much  inferior  to  their  idea,  that  they  easily 
desist  from  their  enterprise,  and  vanish  as  if  they  had  not  so 
much  intention  to  love  as  to  vanish,  and  had  more  shame  to 
have  begun  their  courtship  than  purpose  to  continue  it.  He 
must  be  much  shaken  by  his  suffering  and  by  his  brother's 
death." 

He  waited  a  few  moments,  and  then  spoke  to  Inglesant 
about  his  health,  of  his  brother's  death,  and  of  his  imprison- 
ment. He  spoke  to  him  of  the  late  King,  anH  of  his  distress 
at  the  necessity  under  which  he  lay  of  denying  Inglesant's  com- 
mission :  and  he  said  many  other  things  calculated  to  cheer  his 
friend  and  please  his  self-regard. 

Inglesant  listened  to  him  not  without  pleasure,  but  he  said 
little.  An  idea  had  taken  possession  of  his  mind,  which  he 
carried  with  him  into  Italy  and  for  long  afterwards.  He  was 
more  than  half  convinced  that,  in  rejecting  Cressy's  advice,  he 
had  turned  his  back  on  Christ ;  and  he  was  the  more  confirmed 
in  this  belief  because  never  had  the  image  of  the  Italian,  nor 
the  desire  of  revenge,  taken  so  strong  a  hold  upon  his  imagina- 
tion as  now.  It  occurred  to  his  excited  imagination  that  Christ 
had  deserted  him,  and  the  Fiend  taken  possession,  and  that  the 
course  and  intention  of  the  latter  would  be  to  lure  him  on,  by 
such  images,  to  some  terrible  and  longly  place,  where  the  Italian 
and  he  together  should  be  involved  in  one  common  ghastly  deed 


CHAP.  XXI.]  A  ROMANCE.  *J09 

of  crime,  one  common  and  eternal  ruin.  The  sense  of  having 
had  a  great  act  of  self-denial  placed  before  him  and  having 
refused  it,  no  doubt  weighed  down  and  blunted  his  conscience ; 
and  once  placed,  as  he  half  thought,  upon  the  downward  path, 
nothing  seemed  before  him  but  the  gradual  descent,  adorned  at 
fti'st  by  some  poor  show  of  gaudy  flowers,  but  ending  speedily — 
for  there  was  no  self-delusion  to  such  a  natui'e  as  his,  which  had 
tasted  of  the  heavenly  food — in  miserable  and  filthy  mire,  where, 
loathing  himself  and  despised  by  others,  nothing  awaited  him  but 
eternal  death.  He  answered  the  Jesuit  almost  mechanically, 
and  on  parting  from  him  at  night  promised  indifferently  to 
accompany  him  on  the  morrow  to  an  audience  with  the  Queen. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

Inglesant  travelled  to  I\Iarseilles,  and  by  packet  boat  to  Genoa. 
The  beauty  of  the  approach  by  sea  to  this  city,  and  the  lovely 
gardens  and  the  country  around,  gave  him  the  greatest  delight. 
The  magnificent  streets  of  palaces,  mostly  of  marble,  and  the 
thronged  public  places,  the  galleries  of  paintings,  and  the 
museums,  filled  his  mind'  with  astonishment ;  and  the  entrance 
into  Italy,  wonderful  as  he  had  expected  it  to  be,  surpassed  his 
anticipation.  He  stayed  some  time  in  Genoa,  to  one  or  more 
of  the  Jesuit  fathers  in  which  city  he  had  letters.  Under  the 
guidance  of  these  cultivated  men  he  commenced  an  education  in 
art,  such  as  in  these  days  can  be  scarcely  understood.  From 
his  coming  into  Italy  a  new  life  had  dawned  upon  him  in  the 
music  of  that  country.  Fascinated  as  he  had  always  been  mth 
the  Church  music  at  London  and  Oxford,  for  several  years  he 
had  been  cut  oft*  from  all  such  enjoyment,  and,  at  its  best,  it 
was  but  the  prelude  to  what  he  heard  now.  For  whole  hours 
he  would  remain  on  his  knees  at  mass,  lost  and  wandering  in 
that  strange  world  of  infinite  variety,  the  mass  music — so  various 
in  its  phases,  yet  with  a  monotone  of  pathos  through  it  all. 
The  musical  parties  were  also  a  great  pleasure.  He  played  the 
vioUn  a  little  in  England,  and  rapidly  improved  by  the  excellent 
tuition  he  met  with  here.  He  became,  however,  a  proficient  in 
what  the  Italians  called  the  viola  d'amore,  a  treble  viol,  strung 
with  -wore,  which  attracted  him  by  its  soft  and  sweet  tone, 

P 


210  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [chap.  XXI. 

Amid  a  concord  of  sweet  sounds,  within  hearing  of  the  splash  of 
fountains,  and  surrounded  by  the  rich  colours  of  an  Italian  in- 
terior, the  young  Englishman  found  himself  in  a  new  world  of 
deUght.  As  the  very  soul  of  music,  at  one  moment  merry  and 
the  next  mad  with  passion  and  delightful  pain,  uttered  itself  in 
the  long-continued  tremor  of  the  violins,  it  took  possession  in  att 
its  power  of  Inglesant's  spirit.  The  whole  of  life  is  recited  upon 
the  plaintive  strings,  and  by  their  mysterious  effect  upon  the 
brain  fibres,  men  are  brought  into  sympathy  with  life  in  all  its 
forms,  from  the  gay  promise  of  its  morning  sunrise  to  the  silence 
of  its  gloomy  night. 

From  Genoa  he  went  to  Sienna,  where  he  stayed  some  time 
— the  dialect  here  being  held  to  be  very  pm-e,  and  fit  for  for- 
eigners to  accustom  themselves  to.  He  spoke  Italian  before 
with  sufl&cient  ease,  and  associating  with  several  of  the  religious 
in  this  city  he  soon  acquired  the  language  perfectly.  There  can- 
be  nothing  more  delightful  than  the  first  few  days  of  life  in 
Italy  in  the  company  of  polished  and  congenial  men.  Inglesant 
enjoyed  life  at  Sienna  very  much ;  the  beautiful  clean  town,  all 
marble  and  polished  brick,  the  shining  walls  and  pavement 
softened  and  shaded  by  gardens  and  creeping  vines,  the  jDiazza 
and  fountains,  the  cool  retired  walks  with  distant  prospects,  the 
Duomo,  within  and  without  of  pohshed  marble  inexpressibly 
beautiftd,  with  its  exceeding  sweet  music  and  well-tuned  organs, 
the  libraries  full  of  objects  of  the  greatest  interest,  the  statues 
and  antiquities  everywhere  interspersed. 

The  summer  and  winter  passed  over,  and  he  was  still  in 
Sienna,  and  seemed  loath  to  leave.  He  associated  mostly  with 
the  ecclesiastics  to  whom  he  had  brought  letters  of  introduction, 
for  he  was  more  anxious  at  first  to  become  acquainted  with  the 
country  and  its  treasures  of  art  and  literature  than  to  make 
many  acquaintances.  He  kept  himself  so  close  and  studious 
that  he  met  with  no  adventures  such  as  most  travellers,  especi- 
ally those  who  abandon  themselves  to  the  dissolute  courses  of 
the  country,  meet  with, — courses  which  were  said  at  that  time 
to  be  able  to  make  a  devil  out  of  a  saint.  He  saw  nothing  of 
the  religious  system  but  what  was  excellent  and  delightfid,  see- 
ing everything  through  the  medium  of  his  friends.  He  read  all 
the  Italian  literatui-e  that  was  considered  necessary  for  a  gentle- 
man to  be  acquainted  Tvith ;  and  though  the  learning  of  the 
Fathers  was  not  what  it  had  bedn  a  centmy  ago,  he  still  found 


CHAi'.  XXI.]  A  ROMANCE  211 

several  to  whom  lie  coiild  talk  of  his  favourite  Lucretius  and  of 
the  divine  lessons  of  Plato. 

When  he  had  spent  some  time  in  this  way  in  Italy,  and 
considered  himself  fitted  to  associate  with  the  inhabitants  gene- 
rally, the  Benedictines  took  Inglesant  to  visit  the  family  of 
Cardinal  Chigi,  who  was  afterwards  Pope,  and  who  was  a  native 
of  Sienna.  The  Cardinal  himself  was  in  Eome,  but  his  brother, 
Don  Mario,  received  Jnglesant  politely,  and  introduced  him  to 
his  son,  Don  Flavio,  and  to  two  of  his  nephews.  With  one  of 
these,  Don  Agostino  di  Chigi,  Inglesant  became  very  intimate, 
and  spent  much  of  his  time  at  his  house.  In  this  family  he 
learnt  much  of  the  state  of  parties  in  Rome,  and  was  advised 
in  what  way  to  comport  himself  when  he  should  come  there. 
The  Cardinal  Panzirollo,  who  with  the  Cardinal-Patron  (Pam- 
l^hilio)  had  lately  been  in  great  esteem,  had  just  died,  having 
weakened  his  health  by  his  continued  application  to  business, 
and  the  Pope  had  appointed  Cardinal  Chigi  his  successor  as  first 
Secretary  of  State.  The  Pope's  sister-in-law.  Donna  Olympia 
Maldacliini,  was  supposed  to  be  banished,  but  many  thought  this 
was  only  a  pohtical  retreat,  and  that  she  still  directed  the  affairs 
of  the  Papacy.  At  any  rate  she  soon  returned  to  Rome  and  to 
power.  This  extraordinary  woman,  whose  loves  and  intrigues 
were  enacted  on  the  stage  in  Protestant  countries,  was  the 
sister-in-law  of  the  Pope,  and  was  said  to  live  with  him  in 
criminal  correspondence,  and  to  have  charmed  him  by  some  secret 
incantation — the  incantation  of  a  strong  woman  over  a  weak 
and  criminal  man.  For  a  long  time  she  had  abused  her  author- 
ity in  the  most  scandalous  manner,  and  exerted  her  unboimded 
ascendency  over  the  Pope  to  gratify  her  avarice  and  ambition, 
which  were  as  unbounded  as  her  power.  She  disposed  of  all 
benefices,  which  she  kept  vacant  till  she  was  fidly  informed  of 
their  value  ;  she  exacted  a  thu'd  of  the  entire  value  of  all  oflices, 
receiving  twelve  years'  value  for  an  ofiice  for  hfe.  She  gave 
audience  upon  public  affairs,  enacted  new  laws,  abrogated  those 
of  former  Popes,  and  sat  in  council  with  the  Pope  with  bundles 
of  memorials  in  her  hands.  Severe  satires  were  daily  pasted  on 
the  statue  of  Pasquin  at  Rome ;  yet  it  seemed  so  incredible  that 
Cardinal  Panzirollo,  backed  though  he  was  by  the  Cardinal- 
Nephew,  should  be  abls  to  overthrow  the  power  of  this  woman 
by  a  representation  he  was  said  to  have  made  to  the  Pope, 
that  when  Innocent  at  length  with  great  reluctance  banished 


212  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [chap,  xxi, 

Olympia.  most  persons  supposed  it  was  only  a  temporary  piece  of 
policy. 

The  Chigi  were  at  this  time  living  in  Sienna,  in  great 
simplicity,  at  their  house  in  the  Strada  Romana,  and  in  one  or 
two  small  villas  in  the  neighbourhood ;  but  they  were  of  an 
ancient  and  noble  family  of  this  place,  and  were  held  in  great 
esteem,  and  were  all  of  them  men  of  refinement  and  carefully 
educated..  They  had  made  considerable  figure  in  Rome  during 
the  Pontificate  of  Julius  II. ;  but  afterwards  meeting  with  mis- 
fortunes, were  obliged  to  return  to  Sienna,  where  they  had 
continued  to  reside  ever  since.  At  this  time  there  was  no  idea 
that  the  Cardinal  of  this  house  would  be  the  next  Pope,  and 
though  well  acquainted  with  the  politics  of  Rome,  the  family 
occupied  themselves  mostly  with  other  and  more  innocent 
amusements — in  the  arrangement  of  their  gardens  and  estates, 
in  the  duties  of  hospitality,  and  in  artistic,  literary,  and  anti- 
quarian pursuits.  The  University  and  College  of  Sienna  had 
produced  many  excellent  scholars  and  several  Popes,  and  the 
city  itself  was  full  of  remains  of  antique  art,  and  was  adorned 
with  many  modern  works  of  great  beauty — the  productions  of 
that  school  which  takes  its  name  from  the  town.  Among  such 
scenes  as  these,  and  with  such  companions,  Inglesant's  time 
passed  so  pleasantly  that  he  was  in  no  hurry  to  go  on  to  Rome. 

The  country  about  the  city  was  celebrated  for  hunting,  and 
the  wild  boar  and  the  stag  afforded  excellent  and  exciting,  if 
sometimes  dangerous  sport.  Amid  the  beautiful  valleys,  rich 
with  vineyards,  and  overlooked  by  rocky  hills  and  castled 
summits,  were  scenes  fitted  both  for  pleasure  and  sport;  and 
the  hunting  gave  place,  often  and  in  a  moment,  to  al  fresco 
banquets,  and  conversations  and  pleasant  dalliance  with  the 
ladies,  by  the  cool  shade  near  some  fountain,  or  under  some 
over-arching  rock.  Under  the  influence  of  these  occupations,  so 
various  and  so  attractive  both  to  the  mind  and  body,  and 
thanks  to  so  many  novel  objects  and  continual  change  of  scene, 
Inglesant's  health  rapidly  improved,  and  his  mind  recovered 
much  of  the  calm  and  cheerfulness  which  were  natural  to  it. 
He  thought  little  of  the  Italian,  and  the  terrible  thoughts  with 
which  he  had  connected  him  were  for  the  time  almost  forgotten, 
though,  from  time  to  time,  when  any  accident  recalled  the 
circumstances  to  his  recollection,  they  retiurned  upon  his  spiiits 
with  a  melancholy  effect. 


CHAP.  XXI.]  A  ROMANCK  213 

The  first  time  that  these  gloomy  thoughts  overpowered  him 
since  his  arrival  at  Sienna  was  on  the  following  occasion.  He 
had  been  hunting  with  a  party  of  friends  in  the  valley  of 
Montalciuo  one  day  in  early  autumn.  The  weather  previously 
had  been  wet,  and  the  rising  sun  had  drawn  upward  masses  of 
white  vapour,  which  wreathed  the  green  foliage  and  the  vine 
slopes,  where  the  vintage  was  going  on,  and  concealed  from  sight 
the  hills  on  every  side.  A  pale  golden  light  pervaded  every 
place,  and  gave  mystery  and  beauty  to  the  meanest  cottages 
and  farm-sheds.  The  party,  having  missed  the  stag,  stopped  at 
a  small  osteria  at  the  foot  of  a  sloping  hill,  and  Inglesant  and 
another  gentleman  wandered  up  into  the  vineyard  that  sloped 
upwards  behind  the  house.  As  they  went  up,  the  vines  became 
gradually  visible  out  of  the  silvery  mist,  and  figures  of  peasant 
men  and  women  moved  about — vague  and  half-hidden  until 
they  were  close  to  them,  pigeons  and  doves  flew  in  and  out. 
Inglesant's  friend  stopped  to  speak  to  some  of  the  peasant  girls, 
but  Inglesant  himself,  tempted  by  the  pleasing  mystery  that 
the  mountain  slope — apparently  full  of  hidden  and  beautiful 
life — presented,  wandered  on,  gradually  climbing  higlier  and 
higher,  till  he  had  left  the  vintage  far  below  him,  and  heard  no 
sound  but  that  of  the  grasshoppers  among  the  grass  and  the 
olive  trees,  and  the  distant  laugh  of  the  villagers,  or  now  and 
then  the  music  of  a  hunting  horn  which  one  of  the  party  below 
was  blowing  for  his  own  amusement.  The  mist  was  now  so 
thick  that  he  could  see  nothing,  and  it  was  by  chance  that  he 
even  kept  the  ascending  path.  The  hiU  w?is  rocky  here  and 
there,  but  for  the  most  part  was  covered  with  short  grass, 
cropped  by  the  goats  which  Inglesant  startled  as  he  came 
imexpectedly  upon  them  in  the  mist.  Suddenly,  after  some 
quarter  of  an  hour's  climbing,  he  came  out  of  the  mist  in  a 
moment,  and  stood  under  a  perfectly  clear  sky  upon  the  summit 
of  the  hill.  The  blue  vault  stretched  above  him  without  a 
cloud,  all  alight  with  the  morning  sun ;  at  his  feet  the  grassy 
hill-top  sparkling  in  dew,  not  yet  dried  up,  and  vocal  with 
grasshoppers,  not  yet  silenced  by  the  heat.  The  hill-top  rose 
like  an  island  out  of  a  sea  of  vapour,  seething  and  rolling  round 
in  misty  waves,  and  lighted  with  prismatic  colours  of  every  hue. 
Out  of  this  sea,  here  and  there,  other  hill-tops,  on  which  goats 
were  browsing,  Isij  beneath  the  serene  heaven ;  and  rocky 
points  and  summits,  far  higher  than  these,  reflected  back  the 


214  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [chap.  XXL 

Sim.  He  would  have  seemed  to  stand  above  all  human  conver- 
sation and  walks  of  men  if  every  now  and  then  some  break  in 
the  mist  had  not  taken  place,  opening  glimpses  of  landscapes 
and  villages  far  below;  and  also  the  sound  of  bells,  and  the 
music  of  the  horn,  came  up  fitfully  through  the  mist.  Why,  he 
did  not  know,  but  as  he  gazed  on  this,  the  most  wonderful  and 
beautifid  sight  he  had  ever  seen,  the  recollection  of  Sereuus  de 
XJressy  returned  upon  his  mind  with  intense  vividness  ;  and  the 
contrast  between  the  life  he  was  leading  in  Italy,  amid  every 
delight  of  mind  and  sense,  and  the  life  the  Benedictine  had 
offered  him  in  vain,  smote  upon  his  conscience  with  terrible 
force.      Upon   the  lonely  mountain   top,   beneath   the    serene 

I  silence,  he  threw  himself  upon  the  turf,  and,  overwhelmed  with 
a  sudden  passion,  repented  that  he  had  been  born.  Amid  the 
extraordinary  loveliness,  the  most  gloomy  thoughts  took  posses- 
sion of  him,  and  the  fiend  seemed  to  stand  upon  the  smiling 
mount  and  claim  him  for  himself.  So  palpably  did  the  con- 
sciousness of  his  choice,  worldly  as  he  thought  it,  cause  the 
presence  of  evil  to  appear,  that  in  that  heavenly  solitude  he 
looked  round  for  the  murderer  of  his  brother.  The  moment 
appeared  to  him,  for  the  instant,  to  be  the  one  appointed  for 
the  consiunmation  of  his  guilt.  The  horn  below  sounding  the 
recall  drew  his  mind  out  of  tliis  terrible  reverie,  and  he  came 
down  the  hill,  from  which  the  mist  was  gradually  clearing,  as 
in  a  dream.  He  rejoined  his  company,  who  remarked  tlie  wild 
expression  of  his  face. 

His  old  disease,  ■  in  fact,  never  entirely  left  him ;  he  walked 
often  as  in  a  dream,  and  when  the  fit  was  upon  him  could  never 
discern  the  real  and  the  unreal.  He  knew  that  terrible  feeling 
when  the  world  and  all  its  objects  are  slipping  away,  when  the 
brain  reels,  and  seems  only  to  be  kept  fixed  and  steady  by  a 
violent  exertion  of  the  will;  and  the  mind  is  confused  and 
perplexed  with  thoughts  which  it  cannot  grasp,  and  is  full  of 
fancies  of  vague  duties  and  acts  which  it  cannot  perform,  though 
it  is  convinced  that  they  are  all  important  to  be  done. 

The  Chigi  family  knew  of  Inglesant's  past  life,  and  of  his 
acquaintance  with  the  Ai-chbishop  of  Fermo,  the  Pope's  Nuncio, 
and  they  advised  him  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  his  brother, 
the  Cardinal  Rinuccini,  before  going  to  Rome. 

'*  If  you  go  to  Rome  in  his  train,  or  have  him  for  a  patron 
on  your  arrival,  you  will  start  in  a  much  better  pus'^.tiou  than 


CHAP.XXl.l  A  ROMANCE.  215 

if  you  enter  the  city  an  entire  stranger, — and  the  present  is  not 
a  very  favourable  time  for  going  to  Rome.  The  Pope  is  not 
expected  to  live  very  long.  Donna  Olympia  and  the  Pamphili, 
or  pretended  Pair4Dhili  (for  the  Cardinal-Nephew  is  not  a  Pam- 
phili at  all),  are  si^curing  what  they  can,  using  every  moment  to 
enrich  themselves  wliile  they  have  the  power.  Tne  moment 
the  Pope  dies  they  fall,  and  with  them  all  who  have  been  con-^ 
nected  with  them.  It  is  therefore  useless  to  go  to  Rome  at 
present,  except  as  a  private  person  to  see  the  city,  and  this 
you  can  do  better  in  the  suite  of  the  Cardinal  than  in  any- other 
way.  You  may  wonder  that  we  do  not  offer  to  introduce  you  to 
our  uncle  the  Cardinal  Chigi ;  but  we  had  rather  that  you  should 
come  to  Rome  at  first  under  the  patronage  of  another.  You 
will  understand  more  of  our  reasons  before  long;  meanwhile, 
we  will  write  to  our  uncle  respecting  you,  and  you  may  be  sure 
that  he  will  promote  your  interests  as  much  as  is  in  his  power." 
The  Cardinal  Rinuccini  was  at  that  time  beheved  to  be  at 
his  own  villa,  situated  in  a  village  some  distance  from  Florence 
to  the  north,  and  Don  Agostino  oflfered  to  accompany  Inglesant 
80  far  on  his  journey. 

This  ride,  though  a  short  one,  was  very  pleasant,  and 
endeared  the  two  men  to  each  other  more  than  ever.  They 
travelled  simply,  with  a  very  small  train,  and' did  not  hurry 
themselves  on  the  route.  Indeed,  they  travelled  so  leisurely 
that  they  were  very  nearly  being  too  late  for  their  purpose. 
On  their  arrival  at  the  last  stage  before  reaching  Florence,  they 
stopped  for  the  night  at  a  small  osteria,  and  had  no  sooner 
taken  up  their  quarters  than  a  large  train  arrived  at  the  inn, 
and  on  their  inquiry  they  were  informed  it  was  the  Cardinal 
Rinuccini  himself  on  his  way  to  Rome.  They  immediately 
sent  their  names  to  his  Eminence,  saying  they  had  been  coming 
to  pay  their  respects  to  him,  and  offering  to  resign  their  apart- 
ment, which  was  the  best  in  the  house.  The  Cardinal,  who 
travelled  in  great  state,  with  his  four-post  bed  and  fm-niture  of 
all  kinds  with  him,  retm^ned  a  message  that  he  could  not  disturb 
them  in  their  room  ;  that  he  remembered  Mr.  Inglesant's  name 
in  some  letters  from  his  brother;  and  that  he  should  be 
honoured  by  their  company  to  r.upper. 

The  best  that  the  village  could  afford  was  placed  on  the 
Cardinal's  table,  and  their  liost  entertained  the  two  young  men 
with  gi-eat  courtesy. 


216  JOHN  INGLES  ANT;  [cHAP.  XXL 

He  was  descended  from  a  noble  family  in  Florence,  which 
boasted  among  its  members  Octavio  Riniiccini  the  poet,  who 
came  to  Paris  in  the  suite  of  Marie  de  Medicis,  and  is  said  by- 
some  to  have  been  the  inventor  of  the  Opera.  Besides  the 
Pope's  Legate  another  brother  of  the  Cardinal's,  Thomas  Battista 
Riniiccini,  was  Great  Chamberlain  to  the  Grand  Duke  of  Tuscany. 
All  the  brothers  had  been  carefully  educated,  and  were  men  of 
literary  tastes ;  but  while  the  Archbishop  had  devoted  himself 
mostly  to  politics,  the  Cardinal  had  confined  himself  almost 
enthrely  to  literary  pursuits.  He  owed  his  Cardinal's  hat  to 
the  Grand  Duke,  who  M'as  extremely  partial  to  him  and  pro- 
moted his  interests  in  every  way.  He  was  a  man  of  profound 
learning,  and  an  enthusiastic  admirer  of  antiquity,  but  was  also 
an  acute  logician  and  theologian,  and  perfectly  well  read  in 
Church  history,  and  in  the  controversy  of  the  century,  both  in 
theology  and  philosophy.  Before  the  end  of  supper  Inglesant 
found  that  he  was  acquainted  with  the  writings  of  Hobbes, 
whom  he  had  met  in  Italy,  and  of  whom  he  inquired  with 
interest,  as  soon  as  he  found  Inglesant  had  been  acquainted 
with  him. 

The  following  morning  the  Cardinal  expressed  his  sorrow 
that  the  business  Avhich  took  him  to  Rome  was  of  so  important 
a  nature  that  it  obliged  him  to  proceed  without  delay.  He 
approved  of  the  advice  that  Inglesant  had  already  received,  and 
recommended  him  to  proceed  to  Florence,  with  Don  Agostino, 
as  he  was  so  near ;  so  that  he  might  not  have  his  journey  for 
nothing,  and  might  see  the  city  under  very  favourable  circum- 
stances. Inglesant  was  the  more  ready  to  agree  to  this  as  he 
wished  to  see  as  much  of  Italy  as  he  coidd,  unshackled  by  the 
company  of  the  great,  which,  in  the  uncertain  state  of  health 
both  of  his  body  and  mind,  was  inexpressibly  burdensome  to 
him.  He  had  already  seen  in  this  last  journey  a  great  deal  of 
the  distress  and  bad  government  which  prevailed  everywhere ; 
and  he  wished  to  make  himself  acquainted,  in  some  measure, 
with  the  causes  of  this  distress  before  going  to  Rome.  As  he 
rode  through  the  beautiful  plains  he  had  been  astonished  at  the 
few  inhabitants,  and  at  the  wretchedness  of  the  few.  Italy 
had  suffered  greatly  in  her  commerce  by  the  introduction  of 
Indian  silks  into  Europe.  Some  of  her  most  flourishing  cities 
had  been  depopulated,  their  nobles  ruined ;  and  long  streets  of 
neglected  palaces,  deserted  and  left  in  magnificent  decay,  pre- 


CHAP.  XXI.]  A  ROMANCE.  217 

sented  a  melancholy  though  romantic  spectacle.  But  bad 
government,  and  the  oppression  and  waste  caused  by  the 
accumulated  wealth  and  idleness  of  the  innumerable  religious 
orders,  had  more  to  do  in  ruining  the  prosperity  of  the  country 
than  any  commercial  changes;  and  proofs  of  this  fact  met  the, 
traveller's  eye  on  every  hand. 

It  seemed  to  Inglesant  that  it  was  very  necessary  that  he 
should  satisfy  himself  upon  some  of  these  points  before  becoming 
involved  in  any  political  action  in  the  country ;  and  he  shrank 
from  entering  Rome  at  present,  and  from  attaching  himself  to 
any  great  man  or  any  party.  In  a  country  where  the  least  false 
step  is  fatal,  and  may  plunge  a  man  in  irretrievable  ruin,  or 
consign  him  to  the  dungeons  of  the  Holy  Office,  it  is  certainly 
prudent  in  a  stranger  to  be  wary  of-  his  first  steps.  Having 
communicated  these  resolutions  to  his  friend,  the  two  young 
men,  on  their  arrival  at  Florence,  took  lodgings  privately  in  the 
Piazza  del  Santo  Spirito;  and  occupied  their  time  for  some 
days  in  viewing  the  city,  and  visiting  the  churches  and  museums, 
as  though  they  had  been  simply  travellers  from  cm-iosity. 

Inglesant  believed  the  Italian  to  be  in  Rome,  which  was  a 
farther  reason  for  delaying  his  joiu-ney  there.  He  believed  that 
he  was  going  to  engage  in  some  terrible  conflict,  and  he  wished 
to  prepare  himself  by  an  acquaintance  with  every  form  of  life 
in  this  strange  country.  The  singular  scenes  that  strike  a 
stranger  in  Italy — the  religious  processions,  the  character  and 
habits  of  the  poorer  classes,  their  ideas  of  moral  obligation,  their 
ecclesiastical  and  legal  government — all  appeared  to  him  of 
importance  to  his  future  fate. 

As  he  was  perfectly  unacquainted  with  the  person  of  his 
enemy,  there  was  a  sort  of  vague  expectation — not  to  say  dread 
— always  present  to  his  mind ;  for,  though  he  fancied  that  it 
would  be  in  Rome  that  he  should  find  the  Italian,  yet  it  was 
not  at  all  impossible  that  at  any  moment — it  might  be  in 
FlorenOe,  or  in  the  open  country — he  might  be  the  object  of  a 
murder  JUS  attack.  His  person  was  doubtless  known  to  the 
murderer  of  his  brother,  and  he  thus  walked  everywhere  in  the 
full  light,  while  his  enemy  was  hidden  in  the  dark. 

These  ideas  were  aaldom  absent  from  his  mind,  and  the 
image  of  the  murderer  was  almost  constantly  before  his  eyes. 
Often,  as  some  marked  figiu:e  crossed  his  path,  he  started  and 
watched  the  retreating  form,  wondering  whether  the  object  of 


218  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap.  XXI. 

his  morbid  dread  was  before  him.  Often,  as  the  uncovered 
corpse  was  borne  along  the  streets,  the  thought  struck  him  that 
perhaps  his  fear  and  his  search  were  ahke  needless,  and  that 
before  him  on  the  bier,  harmless  and  strewn  with  flowers,  lay 
his  terrible  foe.  These  thoughts  naturally  prevented  his  engag- 
ing unrestrainedly  in  the  pm'suits  of  his  age  and  rank,  and  he 
often  let  Don  Agostino  go  alone  into  the  gay  society  which  was 
open  to  them  in  Florence. 

In  pursuit  of  his  intention  Inglesant  took  every  opportunity, 
without  incurring  remark,  of  associating  with  the  lower  orders, 
and  learning  their  habits,  traditions,  and  tone  of  thought.  He 
chose  streets  which  led  through  the  poorer  parts  of  the  town  in 
passing  from  one  part  to  another,  and  in  this  way,  and  in  the 
course  of  his  visits  to  difl'erent  churches  and  religious  houses,  he 
was  able  to  converse  with  the  common  people  without  attracting 
attention.  In  excm'sions  into  the  country,  whether  on  parties 
of  pleasure  or  for  sport,  he  was  also  able  to  throw  himself  in 
the  same  way  among  the  peasantry.  Under  the  pretence  of 
shooting  quails  he  passed  several  days  in  more  than  one 
country  village,  and  had  become  acquainted  with  several  of 
the  curds,  from  whom  he  gained  much  information  respecting 
the  habits  of  the  people,  and  of  their  ideas  of  crime  and  of  lawful 
revenge. 

One  of  these  ciuds — a  man  of  penetration  and  intellect — 
strongly  advised  him  to  see  Venice  before  he  went  to  Rome. 

"  Venice,"  he  said  to  him,  "  is  the  sink  of  all  wdckedness, 
and  as  such  it  is  desirable  that  you  shoidd  see  the  people  there, 
and  mix  with  them ;  besides,  as  such,  it  is  not  at  all  unlikely 
that  the  man  you  seek  may  be  found  there." 

''What  is  the  cause  of  this  wickedness'?"  asked  Inglesant. 

"  There  are  several  causes,"  replied  the  priest.  "  One  is 
that  the  Holy  Office  there  is  under  the  control  of  the  State,  and 
is  therefore  almost  powerless.  Wickedness  and  license  of  all 
kinds  are  therefore  unrestrained." 

Inglesant  mentioned  this  advice  to  Don  Agostino,  and  his 
desire  to  proceed  to  Venice;  but  as  the  other  w^as  unwilling  to 
leave  Florence  till  the  termination  of  the  Carnival,  which  was 
now  approaching,  he  was  obliged  to  postpone  his  intention  for 
some  weeks. 

On  one  of  the  opening  days  of  the  Carnival,  Inglesant  had 
accompanied  Don  Agostino  to  a  magnificent  supper  given  by  the 


CHAP.  XXI.]  A  ROMANCK  219 

Grand  Duke  at  his  viLa  and  gardens  at  the  Poggio  Imperiale 
some  distance  outside  ^he  Komana  gate. 

Inglesant  had  succeeded  in  throwing  off  for  a  time  his 
gloomy  thoughts,  and  had  taken  his  share  in  the  gaiety  of  the 
festival;  but  the  effort  and  the  excitement  had  produced  a 
reaction,  and  towards  morning  he  had  succeeded  in  detaching 
himself  from  the  company,  many  of  whom — the  banquet  being 
over — were  strolling  in  the  lovely  gardens  in  the  cool  aii"  which 
preceded  the  dawn,  and  he  returned  alone  to  the  city.  As  this 
was  his  frequent  custom,  his  absence  did  not  surprise  Don 
Agostino,  who  scarcely  noticed  his  friend's  eccentricities. 

When  Inglesant  reached  Florence,  the  sun  had  scarcely 
risen,  and  in  the  miracidously  clear  and  solemn  light  the  count- 
less pinnacles  and  marble  fronts  of  the  wonderful  city  rose  with 
sharp  colour  and  outline  into  the  sky.  It  lay  with  the  country 
round  it  studded  with  the  lines  of  cypress  and  encompassed  by 
the  massy  hills — silent  as  the  grave,  and  lovely  as  paradise ; 
and  ever  and  anon,  as  it  lay  in  the  morning  light,  a  breeze  from 
^i^e  mountains  passed  over  it,  rustling  against  the  marble  fagades 
ttud  through  the  belfries  of  its  towers,  like  the  whisper  of  a  God. 
Is  ow  and  again,  clear  and  sharp  in  the  liquid  air,  the  musical 
bells  of  the  Campanile  rang  out  the  time.  The  cool  expanse  of 
the  gardens,  the  comitry  walk,  the  pure  air,  and  the  silent  city, 
seemed  to  him  to  chide  and  reprove  the  license  and  gaiety  of 
the  night.  Excited  by  the  events  of  the  Carnival,  his  mind 
and  imagination  were  in  that  state  in  which,  from  the  inward 
fancy,  phantoms  are  projected  upon  the  real  stage  of  life,  and, 
playing  their  fantastic  parts,  react  upon  the  excited  sense,  pro- 
ducing conduct  which  in  turn  is  real  in  its  result. 

As  Inglesant  entered  the  city  and  turned  into  one  of  the 
narrow  streets  leading  up  from  the  Arno,  the  market  people 
were  already  entering  by  the  gates,  and  thronging  up  with  their 
wares  to  the  Piazze  and  the  markets.  Carpenters  were  already 
at  work  on  the  scaffolds  and  other  preparations  for  the  conclud- 
ing festivals  of  the  Carnival;-  but  all  these  people,  and  al! 
their  actions,  and  even  the  sounds  that  they  produced^  wore 
that  unreal  and  unsubstantial ,  aspect  which  the  very  early 
morning  light  casts  upon  everything. 

As  Inglesant  ascended  the  narrow  street,  between  the  white 
stone  nouses  which  set  off  the  brilliant  blue  above,  several 
porters  and  countrywomen,  carrying  huge  baskets  and  heaps  of 


220  John  inglesant  ;  [chap,  xxi 

country  produce,  asoanded  with  him,  or  passed  him  as  he  loitered 
along,  and  other  more  idle  and  equivocal  persons,  who  were  just 
awake,  looked  out  upon  him  from  doorways  and  corners  as  he 
passed.  He  had  on  a  gala  dress  of  silk,  somewhat  disordered 
by  the  night  and  by  his  walk,  and  must  have  appeared  a  suit- 
able object  for  the  lawless  attempts  of  the  ladroni  of  a  great 
city ;  but  his  appearance  was  probably  not  sufficiently  helpless 
to  encourage  attack. 

Half-way  up  the  street,  at  the  corner  of  a  house,  stood  an 
image  of  the  Virgin,  round  which  the  villagers  stopped  for  a 
moment,  as  much  to  rest  as  to  pay  their  devotions.  As  Ingle- 
sant stopped  also,  he  noticed  an  old  man  of  a  wretched  and 
abject  demeanour,  leaning  against  the  wall  of  the  house,  as 
though  scarcely  able  to  staud,  and  looking  eagerly  at  some  of 
the  provisions  which  were  carried  past  him.  True  to  his  custom, 
Inglesant — when  he  had  given  him  some  small  coin  as  an  alms 
— began  to  speak  to  him. 

"  You  have  carried  many  such  loacls  as  these,  father,  I  doubt 
not,  in  your  time,  though  it  must  be  a  ligiit  one  now," 

"  I  am  past  carrying  even  myself,"  said  the  other,  in  a  weak 
and  wdiining  voice ;  "  but  I  have  not  carried  loads  all  my  life. 
I  have  kept  a  shop  on  the  Goldsmith's  Bridge,  and  have  lived 
at  my  ease.  Now  I  have  nothing  left  me  but  the  sun — the 
sun  and  the  cool  shade." 

"  Yours  is  a  hard  fate." 

*'  It  is  a  hard  and  miserable  world,  and  yet  I  love  it.  It 
has  done  me  nothing  but  evil,  and  yet  I  watch  it  and  seek  out 
what  it  does,  and  listen  to  what  goes  on,  just  as  if  I  thought  to 
hear  of  any  good  fortune  likely  to  come  to  me.  Foolish  old 
man  that  I  am  !  What  is  it  to  me  what  people  say  or  do,  or 
who  dies,  or  who  is  married  ?  and  why  should  I  come  out  here 
to  see  the  market  people  pass,  and  climb  this  street  to  hear  of 
the  murder  that  was  done  here  last  night,  and  look  at  the  body 
that  lies  in  the  room  above  V 

"What  murder?"  said  Inglesant.  "Who  was  murdered, 
and  by  whom  ?" 

"  He  is  a  foreigner ;  they  say  an  Inglese — a  traveller  here 
merely.  Who  murdered  him  I  know  not,  though  they  do  say 
that  too." 

"Where  is  the  body?"  said  Inglesant.  "Let  us  go  up." 
Aud  he  gave  the  old  man  another  small  coin. 


OH\P,  XXI.]  A  ROMANCE.  221 

The  old  man  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  with  a  peculiar 
expression. 

"  Better  not,  Signore,"  he  said,  "  better  go  home." 

"  Do  not  fear  for  me,"  said  Iiigiesant ;  "  I  bear  a  charmed 
life;  no  steel  can  touch  me,  nor  any  bullet  hurt  me,  till  my 
hour  comes ;  and  my  hour  is  not  yet." 

The  old  man  led  the  way  to  an  open  door,  carved  with 
tracery  and  foliaged  work,  and  they  ascended  a  flight  of  stairs. 
It  was  one  of  those  houses,  so  common  in  Italian  towns,  whose 
plain  and  massive  exterior,  pierced  with  few  and  narrow  windows, 
gives  no  idea  of  the  size  and  splendour  of  the  rooms  within. 
When  they  reached  the  top  of  the  stairs,  Inglesant  saw  that 
the  house  had  once,  and  probably  not  long  before,  been  the 
residence  of  some  person  of  wealth.  They  passed  through 
several  rooms  with  carved  chimney-pieces  and  cornices,  and  here 
and  there  even  some  massive  piece  of  furniture  still  remained. 
From  the  windows  that  opened  on  the  inner  side  Inglesant 
could  see  the  tall  cypresses  of  a  garden,  and  hear  the  splash  of 
fountains.  But  the  house  had  fallen  from  its  high  estate,  and 
was  now  evidently  used  for  the  vilest  purposes.  After  passing 
two  or  three  rooms,  they  reached  an  upper  hall  or  dining-room 
of  considerable  length,  and  painted  in  fresco  apparently  of  some 
merit.  A  row  of  windows  on  the  left  opened  on  the  garden, 
from  which  the  sound  of  voices  and  laughter  came  up. 

The  room  was  bare  of  furnitm-e,  except  towards  the  upper 
end,  where  was  a  small  and  shattered  table,  upon  which  the 
body  of  the  murdered  man  was  laid.  Inglesant  went  up  and 
stood  by  its  side. 

There  was  no  doubt  whose  countryman  he  had  been.  The 
fair  English  boy,  scarcely  bordering  upon  manhood — the  heir, 
probably,  of  bright  hopes — travelling  with  a  careless  or  incom- 
petent tutor,  lay  upon  the  small  table,  his  long  hair  glistening 
in  the  sunlight,  his  face  peaceful  and  smilmg  as  in  sleep.  The 
fatal  rapier  thrust,  marked  by  the  stain  upon  the  clothes,  was 
the  sole  sign  that  his  mother — waking  up  probably  at  that 
moment  in  distant  England,  with  his  image  in  her  heart — was 
bereaved  for  ever  of  her  boy.  Inglesant  stood  silent  a  few 
moments,  looking  sadly  down ;  that  other  terrible  figure,  upon 
the  white  hearthstone,  was  so  constantly  in  his  mind,  that  this 
one,  so  like  it,  scarcely  could  be  said  to  recall  the  image  of  his 
murdered  brother ;  but  the  whole  scene  certainly  strengthened 


222  JOHN  INGLES  ANT  ;  [cHAP.  XXI, 

his  morbid  fancy,  and  it  seemed  to  l»im  that  he  was  on  the  foot- 
steps of  the  nuirderer,  and  that  his  fate  was  drawing  near. 

"His  steps  are  still  in  blood,"  he  said  aloud;  "and  it  is 
warm  ;  he  cannot  be  far  off." 

He  turned,  as  he  spoke,  to  look  for  the  old  man,  but  he  was 
gone,  and  in  his  place  a  ghastly  figure  met  Inglesant's  glance. 

Standing  about  three  feet  from  the  table,  a  little  behind 
Inglesant,  and  also  looking  fixedly  at  the  murdered  boy,  was 
the  figure  of  a  corpse.  The  face  w^as  thin  and  fearfully  white, 
and  the  whole  figure  was  wrapped  and  swathed  in  grave-clothes, 
somewhat  disordered  and  loosened,  so  as  to  give  play  to  the 
limbs.  This  form  took  no  notice  of  the  other's  presence,  but 
continued  to  gaze  at  the  body  with  its  pallid  ghastly  face. 

Inglesant  scarcely  started.  Nothing  could  seem  more 
strange  and  unreal  to  him  than  what  was  passing  on  every 
side.  That  the  dead  should  return  and  stand  by  him  seemed 
to  him  not  more  fearful  and  unreal  than  all  the  rest. 

Suddenly  the  corpse  turned  its  eyes  upon  Inglesant,  and 
regarded  him  with  a  fixed  and  piercing  glance. 

"You  spoke  of  the  author  of  this  deed  as  though  you  knew 
him,"  it  said. 

"I  am  on  the  track  of  a  murderer,  and  my  fate  is  urging 
me  on.     It  seems  to  me  that  I  see  his  bloody  steps." 

"  This  was  no  murder,"  said  the  corpse,  in  an  irritated  and 
impatient  voice.  "  It  was  a  chance  melde,  and  an  unf  )rtunate 
and  unhappy  thrust ;  we  do  not  even  know  the  name  of  the 
man  who  lies  there.  Are  you  the  avenger  of  blood,  that  you 
see  murder  at  every  step?" 

"I  am  in  truth  the  avenger  of  blood,"  said  Inglesant  in  a 
low  and  melancholy  voice  ;  "  would  I  were  not." 

The  corpse  continued  to  look  at  Inglesant  fixedly,  and  would 
have  spoken,  but  the  voices  which  had  been  heard  in  the  garden 
now  seemed  to  come  nearer,  and  hurried  steps  approaclied  the 
room.  The  laughter  that  Inglesant  had  heard  was  stilled,  and 
deep  and  solemn  voices  strove  together,  and  one  above  the  rest 
said,  "Bring  up  the  murderer." 

The  cori)so  tmiied  round  impatiently,  and  the  next  moment 
from  a  small  door,  which  opened  on  a  covered  balcony  and  out- 
side staircase  to  the  garden,  there  came  hurriedly  in  a  troop  of 
the  most  strange  and  fantastic  figm-es  that  the  eye  coidd  rest 
upon. .    Angels  and  demons,  and  savage  men  in  lions'  skins. 


CHAP.  XXI.]  A  ROMANCE.  223 

and  men  with  the  heads  of  beasts  and  birds,  swarmed  tumultu- 
ously  in,  dragging  with  them  an  unfortunate  being  in  his 
night-clothes,  and  apparently  just  out  of  bed,  whom  they  urged 
on  with  blows.  This  man,  who  was  only  half- awake,  was 
evidently  in  the  extremity  of  terror,  and  looked  upon  himself 
as  abeady  in  the  place  of  eternal  tonnent.  He  addressed  now 
one  and  now  another  of  his  tormentors,  as  well  as  he  could  find 
breath,  in  the  most  abject  terms,  endeavouring,  in  the  most 
ludicrous  manner,  to  choose  the  titles  and  epithets  to  adch-ess 
them  most  in  accordance  with  the  individual  appearance  that 
the  spectre  he  entreated  wore  to  his  dazzled  eyes — whether  a 
demon  or  an  angel,  a  savage  or  a  man-beast.  When  he  saw 
the  murdered  man,  and  the  terrible  figiu-e  that  stood  by  Ingle- 
sant,  he  nearly  fainted  with  terror;  but,  on  many  voices 
demanding  loudly  that  he  should  be  brought  in  contact  with 
the  body  of  his  victim,  he  recovered  a  little,  and  recognizing  in 
Inglesant,  at  least,  a  being  of  an  earthly  sphere,  and  by  his 
dress  a  man  of  rank,  he  burst  from  his  tormentors,  and  throw- 
ing himself  at  his  feet,  he  entreated  his  protection,  assuring 
him  that  he  had  been  guilty  of  no  murder,  ha\'ing  just  been 
dragged  from  a  sound  sleep,  and  being  even  ignorant  that  a 
murder  had  been  committed. 

Inglesant  took  little  notice  of  him,  but  the  corpse  interposed 
between  the  man  and  the  fantastic  crew.  It  was  still  apparently 
in  a  very  bad  humour,  especially  with  Inglesant,  and  said 
imperiously, — "  We  have  enough  and  too  much  of  this  fooleiy. 
Have  not  some  of  you  done  enough  mischief  for  one  tiight  ? 
This  gentleman  says  he  is  on  the  track  of  a  murderer,  and  wiU 
have  it  that  he  sees  his  traces  in  this  unfortunate  affair." 

At  these  words  the  masquers  crowded  round  Inglesant  with 
wild  and  threatening  gestures,  apparently  half  earnest  and  half 
the  result  of  wine,  and  as  many  of  them  were  armed  with  great 
clubs,  the  consequences  might  have  seemed  doubtful  to  one 
whose  feelings  were  less  eicited  than  Inglesant's  were. 

He,  however,  as  though  the  proceeding  were  a  matter  of 
course,  merely  took  off  his  hat,  and  adch'essed  the  others  in 
explanation. 

"  I  am  indeed  in  pursuit  of  a  murderer,  the  miu-derer  of  my 
brother — a  gallant  and  noble  gentleman,  who  was  slain  foidly 
m  cold  blood.  The  miu*derer  was  an  Italian,  his  name  Malvolti. 
Do  any  of  you,  signori,  happen  to  have  heard  of  such  a  man  1" 


224  JOHN  inglesant;  [chap.  x*xl 

There  was  a  pause  after  this  singular  address,  but  the  next 
moment  a  demon  of  terrific  aspect  forced  his  way  to  the  front, 
saying  in  a  tone  of  drunken  consequence, — 

"  I  knew  him  formerly  at  Lucca ;  he  was  well  born  and  my 
friend." 

"  He  was,  and  is,  a  scelerat  and  a  coward,"  said  Inglesant 
fiercely.  "It  would  be  well  to  be  more  carefid  of  your  com 
pany,  sir." 

"  Have  I  not  said  he  was  my  friend,  sir  *?"  cried  the  demon, 
furious  with  passion.     "  Who  will  lend  me  a  rapier  1" 

A  silent  and  melancholy  person,  with  the  head  of  an  owl, 
who  had  several  under  his  arm,  immediately  tendered  him  one 
with  a  low  bow,  and  the  masquers  fell  back  in  a  circle,  while 
the  demon,  drawing  his  weapon,  threw  himself  into  an  attitude 
and  attacked  Inglesant,  who,  after  looking  at  him  for  a  moment, 
also  drew  his  rapier  and  stood  upon  his  guard.  It  soon  appeared 
that  the  demon  was  a  very  moderate  fencer ;  in  less  than  a 
minute  his  guard  was  entered  by  Inglesant's  irresistible  tierce, 
and  he  would  have  been  infallibly  run  through  the  body  had  he 
not  saved  himself  by  rolling  ignominiously  on  the  ground. 

This  incident  appeared  to  restore  the  corpse  to  good  humour ; 
it  laughed,  and  turning  to  the  masquers  said, — 

"  Gentlemen,  let  me  beg  of  you  to  disperse  as  quickly  as 
possible  before  the  day  is  any  farther  advanced.  You  know  of 
the  rendezvous  at  one  o'clock.  I  will  see  the  authorities  as  to 
this  unhappy  affair.  Sir,"  he  continued,  turning  to  Inglesant, 
"  you  aTe,  I  believe,  the  friend  of  Don  Agostino  di  Chigi,  whom 
he  has  been  introducing  into  Florentme"society ;  if  irwill  amuse 
you  to  see  a  frolic  of  the  Carnival  carried  out,  of  which  this  is 
only  the  somewhat  unfortunate  rehearsal,  and  will  meet  me 
this  afternoon  at  two  o'clock,  at  the  Great  Church  in  the  Via 
Larga,  I  shall  be  happy  to  do  my  best  to  entertain  you ;  a 
simple  domino  will  sufSce.     I  am  the  Count  Capece." 

Inglesant  gave  his  name  in  return.  He  apologized  for  not 
accepting  the  Count's  courtesy,  on  the  plea  of  ill-health,  but 
assured  him  he  would  take  advantage  of  his  offer  to  cultivate 
his  acquaintance.  They  left  the  house  together,  the  Count 
covering  himself  with  a  cloak,  and  Inglesant  accompanied  him 
to  the  office  of  police,  from  whence  he  went  to  his  lodging  and 
to  his  bed. 

He  arose  early  in   the   afternoon,  and   remembering  the 


CHAP.  XXI.]  A  ROIIANCE.  225 

invitation  he  had  received,  he  went  ^iit  into  the  Via  Larga. 
The  streets  formed  a  strange  contrast  to  the  stillness  and  calm 
of  the  cool  morning.  The  afternoon  was  hot,  and  the  city 
crowded  with  people  of  every  class  and  rank.  The  balconies 
and  windows  of  the  principal  streets  were  full  of  ladies  and 
children ;  trophies  and  embroideries  hnng  from  the  houses  and 
crossed  the  street.  Strings  of  carriages  and  country  carts, 
dressed  wdth  flowers  and  branches  of  trees,  paraded  the  streets. 
Every  variety  of  fantastic  and  grotesque  costume,  and  every 
shade  of  colour,  filled  and  confused  the  eye.  Music,  laughter, 
and  loud  talking  filled  the  ear.  Inglesant,  from  his  simple 
costiune  and  grave  demeanour,  became  the  butt  of  several  noisy 
parties ;  but  used  as  he  was  to  great  crowds,  ,and  to  the  con- 
fused revelries  of  Com-ts,  he  was  able  to  disentangle  himself 
with  mutual  good-hiunom-.  He  recognized  his  friends  of  the 
morning,  who  were  performing  a  kind  of  comedy  on  a  country 
cart,  arched  with  boughs,  in  imitation  of  the  oldest  form  of  the 
itinerant  theatre.  He  was  recog-nized  by  them  also,  for,  in  a 
pause  of  the  performance,  as  he  was  moving  down  a  bye-street, 
he  was  accosted  by  one  of  the  company,  enveloped  in  a  large 
cloak.  He  had  no  difiiculty  in  recognizing  beneath  this  con- 
cealment his  antagonist  of  the  morning,  who  still  supported  his 
character  of  demon. 

"I  ofier  you  my  apologies  for  the  occurrences  of  this  morning, 
signore,"  he  said,  "  having  been  informed  by  my  friends  more 
closely  concerning  them  than  I  can  myself  recollect.  I  am  also 
deeply  interested  in  the  person  of  whom  you  spoke,  who 
formerly  was  a  friend  of  mine  ;  and  I  must  also  have  been 
acquainted  with  the  siguore,  your  brother,  of  which  I  am  the 
more  certain  as  your  appearance  every  moment  recalls  him  more 
and  more  to  my  mind.  I  should  esteem  it  a  great  favour  to  be 
allowed  to  speak  at  large  with  you  on  these  matters.  If  you 
will  allow  me  to  pay  my  respects  at  your  lodgings,  I  will  con- 
duct you  to  my  father's  house,  il  Conte  Pericon  di  Visalvo, 
where  I  can  show  you  many  things  which  may  be  of  interest  to 
you  respecting  the  man  whom  I  understand  you  seek." 

Inglesant  replied  that  he  should  gladly  avail  himself  of  his 
society,  and  offered  to  come  to  the  Count's  house  early  the  next 
day. 

He  found  the  house,  a  sombre  plain  one,  in  a  quiet  street, 
with  a  tall  front  pierced  with  few  windows.     At  the  low  door 

Q 


226  ^       JOHN  INGLES  ANT ;  [CHAP.  tXL 

hung  a  wine-flask,  as  a  sign  that  wine  was  sold  within ;  for  the 
sale  of  wine  by  retail  was  confined  to  the  gentry,  the  common 
people  being  only  allowed  to  sell  wholesale.  The  Count  was 
the  fortunate  possessor  of  a  very  fine  vineyard,  which  made  his 
wine  much  in  request,  and  Inglesant  found  the  whole  ground- 
floor  of  his  house  devoted  to  this  retail  traffic.  Having  inquired 
for  the  Count,  he  was  led  up  the  staircase  into  a  vestibule,  and 
from  thence  into  the  Count's  own  room  Tiiis  was  a  large 
apartment  with  windows  looking  on  to  the  court,  with  a  suite 
of  rooms  opening  beyond  it.  It  was  handsomely  furnished, 
with  several  cages  full  of  singing  birds  in  the  windows.  Out- 
side, the  walls  of  the  houses  forming  the  courtyard  were  covered 
with  vines  an4  creeping  jessamine  and  other  plants,  and  a 
fountain  splashed  in  the  centre  of  the  court,  which  was  covered 
with  a  coloured  awning. 

The  old  Count  received  Inglesant  politely.  He  was  a  tall, 
spare  old  man,  with  a  reserved  and  dignified  manner,  more  like 
that  of  a  Spaniard  than  of -an  Italian.  Rather  to  Inglesant's 
surprise  he  introduced  him  to  his  daughter,  on  whom,  as  she 
sat  near  one  of  the  windows,  Inglesant's  eyes  had  been  fixed 
from  the  moment  he  had  entered  the  room.  The  Italians  were 
so  careful  of  the  ladies  of  their  families,  and  it  was  so  unusual 
to  allow  strangers  to  see  them,  that  his  surprise  was  not  un- 
natural, especially  as  the  young  lady  before  him  was  remarkably 
beautiful.  She  was  apparently  very  young,  tall  and  dark-eyed, 
with  a  haughty  and  indiff'erent  manner,  which  concentrated 
itself  entirely  upon  her  father. 

The  Count  noticed  Inglesant's  surprise  at  the  cordiality  of 
his  reception,  and  seemed  to  speak  as  if  in  explanation. 

"  You  are  no  stranger  to  us,  signore,"  he  said ;  "  my  son 
has  not  only  commended  you  to  me,  but  your  intimacy  with 
Count  Agostino  has  endeared  you  akeady  to  us  who  admire  and 
love  him." 

As  Agostino  had  told  him  the  evening  before  that  he  knew 
little  of  these  people,  though  he  believed  the  old  Count  to  be 
respectable,  this  rather  increased  Inglesant's  surprise ;  but  he 
merely  said  that  he  was  fortunate  in  possessing  a  friend  wdiose 
favour  procured  him  such  advantages. 

"My  son's  afiairs,"  continued  the  old  man,  "unavoidably 
took  him  abroad  this  morning,  but  I  wait  his  retm^n  every 
moment." 


CHAP.  XXI.]  A  ROMANCE.  227 . 

Inglesant  suspected  that  the  Cavaliere,  wl  o  appeared  to 
hira  to  be  a  complete  debauchee,  had  not  been  at  home  at  all 
that  night;  but  if  that  were  the  case,  when  he  entered  the 
room  a  few  moments  afterwards,  his  manner  was  completely  self- 
possessed  and  quiet,  and  showed  no  signs  of  a  night  of  revelry. 

As  soon  as  they  were  seated  the  Cavaliere  began  to  explain 
to  Inglesant  that  both  his  father  and  himself  were  anxious  to 
see  him,  to  confer  respecting  the  unfortunate  circumstances 
which,  as  they  imagined,  had  brought  him  to'  Italy  upon  a 
mission  which  they  assured  him  was  madly  imprudent. 

"Our  nation,  signore,"  said  the  Cavaliere,  "is  notorious  for 
two  passions — ^jealousy  and  revenge.  Both  of  these,  combined 
with  self-interest,  induced  Malvolti  to  commit  the  foul  deed 
which  he  perpetrated  upon  your  brother.  While  in  Italy  your 
brother  crossed  him  in  some  of  his  amours,  and  also  resented 
some  indiscretions,  which  the  manners  of  oiu:  nation  regard  with 
tolerance,  but  which  your  discreeter  countrymen  resent  with 
imappeasable-  disgust.  Om*  people  never  forgive  injuries  ;  nay, 
they  entail  them  on  their  posterity.  We  ourselves  left  our 
native  city,  Lucca,  on  account  of  one  of  these  feuds,  which 
made  it  uiisafe  for  us  to  remain  ;  and  I  could  show  you  a  gentle- 
man's house  in  Lucca  whose  master  has  never  set  foot  out  of 
doors  for  nine  years,  nay,  scarcely  looked  out  of  window,  for 
fear  of  being  shot  by  an  antagonist  who  has  several  times 
planted  ambushes  to  take  away  his  life.  It  is  considered  a 
disgrace  to  a  family  that  one  of  its  members  has  forgiven  an 
injury ;  and  a  mother  will  keep  the  bloody  clothes  of  her  mur- 
dered husband,  to  incite  her  young  sons  to  acts  of  vengeance: 
You  will  see,  signore,  the  evil  which  such  ideas  as  these  wind 
about  our  lives ;  and  how  unwise  it  must  be  in  a  stranger  to 
involve  himself  needlessly  in  such  an  intrigue,  in  a  foreign 
country,  unknown  and  comparatively  without  friends.  Italy 
swarms  with  bravoes  hired  to  do  the  work  of  vengeance ;  mer- 
chants are  assaulted  in  their  warehouses  in  open  day;  in  the 
public  streets  the  highest  personages  in  the  land  are  not  safe. 
What  will  be  the  fate  then  of  a  stranger  whose  death  is  neces- 
sary to  the  safety  of  an  Italian  1" 

"I  understand  you,  signore,"  said  Inglesant,  "and  I  thank 
you  for  your  good-will,  but  you  are  somewhat  mistaken.  I  am 
not  seeking  the  man  of  whom  we  speak,  though,  I  confess,  I 
came  to  Italy  partly  with  the  expectation  of  meeting  him,  when 


228  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap,  xxi 

it  is  tlie  will  of  God,  or  the  will  of  the  Devil,  whom  He  per- 
mits to  influence  the  affairs  of  men,  that  this  man  and  I  should 
meet.  I  shall  not  attempt  to  avoid  the  interview ;  it  would 
be  useless  if  I  did.  The  result  of  that  meeting  who  can  tell ! 
But  as  I  said  yesterday  to  the  Count  Capece,  till  my  hoiu* 
comes  I  bear  a  charmed  life  that  cannot  be  taken,  and  any 
result  I  regard  with  supreme  indifference,  if  so  be  I  may,  by 
any  means,  escape  in  the  end  the  snares  of  the  Devil,  who 
.seeks  to  take  me  captive  at  his  will." 

The  two  gentlemen  regarded  Inglesant  with  profound  aston- 
ishment as  he  uttered  these  words ;  and  the  young  lady  in  the 
window  raised  her  eyes  towards  him  as  he  was  speaking  (he 
spoke  very  pure  Italian)  with  some  appearance  of  interest. 

After  a  pause  Inglesant  went  on,  "  I  also  venture  to  think, 
signore,"  lie  said,  "  that  you  are  unaware  of  the  position  of  this 
man,  and  of  the  condition  to  which  his  crimes  have  brought 
him.  I  am  well  informed  from  siu-e  sources  that  he  is  without 
friends,  and  that  his  crimes  have  raised  him  more  enemies  in 
this  country  even  than  elsewhere  ;  so  that  he  is  afraid  to  appear 
openly,  lest  he  fall  a  victim  to  his  own  countrymen.  He  is  also 
in  abject  poverty,  and  is  therefore  to  a  great  extent  powerless 
to  do  evil." 

The  Cavaliere  smiled.  "  You  do  not  altogether  know  this 
country,  signore,"  he  said ;  "  there  are  always  so  many  different 
factions  and  interests  at  work  that  a  daring  useful  man  is  never 
without  patrons,  who  will  support  and  ftu-ther  his  private 
interests  in  retm-n  for  the  service  he  may  render  them;  and 
(though  you  may  not  be  fully  aware  of  it)  it  is  because  it  is 
notorious  that  you  are  yourself  supported  and  protected  by  a 
most  powerful  and  widely  spread  faction,  that  your  position  in 
this  country  is  as  assured  and  safe  as  it  is." 

His  words  certainly  struck  Inglesant.  The  idea  that  lie 
■was  already  a  known  and  marked  man  in  this  wonderful  country, 
and  playing  an  acknowledged  part  in  its  fantastic  drama,  was 
new  to  him,  and  he  remained  silent. 

"  From  all  ordinary  antagonists,"  continued  the  Cavaliere, 
"this  knowledge  is  sufficient  to  seciu-e  you;  no  man  would 
wish,  unless  ruined  and  desperate,  to  draw  on  his  head  the 
swift  and  certain  punishment  which  a  hand  raised  against  your 
life  would  be  sure  to  invoke.  But  a  reckless  despairing  man 
gtops  at  nothing ;   and  should   you,   by  your  presence  even, 


CHAP.  XXI.]  A  ROMANCE.  229 

endanger  this  man's  standing  in  the  favour  of  some  new-fomid 
patron,  or  impede  the  success  of  some  freshly  planned  scheme — • 
perh^aps  the  last  hope  of  his  ruined  life — I  would  not  buy  your 
safety  at  an  hour's  rate." 

While  the  Cavahere  was  speaking  it  was  evident  that  his 
sister  was  listening  with  great  attention.  The  interest  that 
she  manifested,  and  the  singular  attraction  that  Inglesant  felt 
towards  her,  so  occupied  his  thoughts  that  he  could  scarcely 
attend  to  what  the  other  was  saying,  though  he  continued 
speaking  for  some  time.  It  is  possible  that  the  Cavaliere 
noticed  this,  for  Inglesant  was  suddenly  conscious  that  he  was 
regarding  him  fixedly  and  with  a  peculiar  expression.  He 
apologized  for  his  inattention  on  the  ground  of  ill-health,  and 
soon  after  took  his  leave,  having  invited  the  Cavaliere  to  visit 
him  at  his  lodgings. 

As  Inglesant  walked  back  through  the  streets  of  the  city, 
he  was  perplexed  at  his  own  sensations,  which  appeared  so 
different  from  any  he  had  previously  known.  The  attraction 
he  experienced  towards  the  lady  he  had  just  seen  was  quite 
different  from  the  affection  he  had  felt  for  Mary  Collet.  That 
was  a  sentiment  which  commended  itself  to  his  reason  and 
his  highest  feelings.  In  her  company  he  felt  himself  soothed, 
elevated  above  himself,  safe  from  danger  and  from  temptation. 
In  this  latter  attraction  he  was  conscious  of  a  half-formed  fear, 
of  a  sense  of  glamour  and  peril,  and  of  an  alliu-ing  force 'inde- 
pendent of  his  own  free-will.  The  opinion  he  had  formed  of  her 
brother's  character  may  have  had  something  to  do  with  these 
feelings,  and  the  sense  of  perpetual  danger  and  inseciurity  with 
which  he  walked  this  land  of  mystery  and  intrigue  no  doubt 
increased  it.  He  half  resolved  not  to  visit  the  old  nobleman 
again ;  but  even  while  forming  the  resolution  he  knew  that  he 
should  break  it. 

The  circumstances  in  which  he  was  placed,  indeed,  almost 
precluded  such  a  course.  The  very  remarkable  beauty  of  the 
young  lady,  and  the  extraordinary  unreserve  with  which  he  had 
been  introduced  to  her — unreserve  so  unusual  in  Italy — while 
it  might  increase  the  misgiving  he  felt,  made  it  very  dijfficult 
for  him  to  decline  the  acquaintance.  The  girl's  beauty  was  of 
a  kind  unusual  in  Italy,  though  not  unknown  there,  her  hair 
being  of  a  light  brown,  contrasting  with  her  magnificent  eyes, 
which  were  of  the  true  Italian  splendour  and  brilliancy.     She 


230  JOHN  INGLES  ANT ;  [cHAP.  XXL 

had  doubtless  been  kept  in  the  strictest  seclusion,  and  Ingle sant 
could  only  wonder  what  could  have  induced  the  old  Count  to 
depart  from  his  usual  caution. 

The  next  day,  being  Ash  Wednesday,  Inglesant  was  present 
at  the  Duomo  at  the  ceremony  of  the  day,  when  the  vast  con- 
gregation received  the  emblematic  ashes  upon  their  foreheads. 
The  Cavaliere  was  also  present  with  his  sister,  whose  name 
Inglesant  discovered  to  be  Lauretta.  Don  Agostino,  to  whom 
Inglesant  had  related  the  adventure,  and  the  acquaintance  to 
which  it  had  led,  was  inclined  to  suspect  these  people  of  some 
evil  pm'pose,  and  made  what  inquiries  he  could  concerning 
them ;  but  he  could  "discover  nothing  to  their  discredit,  further 
than  that  the  Cavaliere  was  a  well-known  debauchee,  and  that 
he  had  been  involved  in  some  intrigue,  in  connection  with  some 
of  the  present  Papal  family,  which  had  not  proved  successful. 
He  was  in  consequence  then  in  disgrace  with  Donna  Olmypia 
and  her  faction, — a  disappointment  which  it  was  said  had 
rendered  his  fortunes  very  desperate,  as  he  was  very  deeply 
involved  in  debts  of  all  kinds.  Don  Agostino,  the  Carnival 
being  over,  was  desirous  of  retiuning  to  Sienna,  unless  Inglesant 
made  up  his  mind  to  go  at  once  to  Venice,  in  which  case  he 
offered  to  accompany  him.  His  friend,  however,  did  not  appear 
at  all  desirous  of  quitting  Florence,  at  any  rate  hastily,  and 
Don  Agostino  left  him  and  returned  home,  the  two  friends 
agree'ing  to  meet  again  before  proceeding  to  Venice. 

His  companion  gone,  Inglesant  employed  himself  in  frequent- 
ing all  those  Churches  to  which  Laiuetta  was  in  the  habit  of 
resorting  diuing  the  Holy  Season ;  and  as  every  facility  appeared 
to  be  given  him  by  her  friends,  he  became  very  intimate  with 
her,  and  she  on  her  part  testified  no  disinclination  to  his  society. 
It  will  probably  occiu  to  the  reader  that  tins  conduct  was  not 
consistent  with  the  cautious  demeanour  which  Inglesant  had 
resolved  upon ;  but  such  resolutions  have  before  now  proved 
ineffectual  under  similar  circumstances,  and  doubtless  the  like 
will  occur  again.  Lauretta  looked  round  as  a  matter  of  course, 
as  she  came  out  of  the  particular  Church  she  had  that  day 
chosen,"  for  the  handsome  cavalier  who  was  certain  to  be  ready 
to  offer  the  drop  of  holy  water ;  and  more  than  one  rival  whom 
the  beautiful  devotee  had  attracted  to  the  service,  noticed  with 
envy  the  kindly  look  of  the  masked  eyes  which  acknowledged 
the  courtesy ;  and,  indeed;  it  is  not  often  that  ladies'  eyes  have 


CHAP.  XXI.]  A  ROMANCE.  231 

rested  upon  a  lover  more  attractive  to  a  girl  of  a  refined  nature 
than  did  Lauretta's  when,  in  the  dawn  of  the  March  mornings, 
she  saw  John  Inglesant  waiting  for  her  on  the  marble  steps. 
It  is  true  that  she  thought  the  Cavaliere  Inglese  somewhat 
melancholy  and  sad,  but  her  own  disposition  was  reserved  and 
pensive  ;  and  in  her  presence  Inglesant's  melancholy  was  so  far 
charmed  away  that  it  became  only  an  added  grace  of  sweetness 
of  manner,  and  of  tender  deference  and  protection.  The  servant 
of  the  polished  King  of  England,  the  companion  of  Falkland  and 
of  Caernarvon,  the  French  Princess's  favourite  page,  trained  in 
every  art  that  makes  life  attractive,  that  makes  life  itself  the 
finest  art,  with  a  memory  and  intellect  stored  with  the  poetry 
and  learning  of  the  antique  world, — it  would  have  been  strange 
if,  where  once  his  fancy  was  touched,  Inglesant  had  not  made  a 
finished  and  attractive  lover. 

The  familiar  streets  of  Florence,  the  bridges  or  the  walks 
by  the  Arno,  assumed  a  new  charm  to  the  young  girl,  when  she 
saw  them  in  company  with  her  pleasant  and  courteous  friend ; 
and  whether  in  the  early  morning  it  was  a  few  spring  flowers 
that  he  brought  her,  or  a  brilliant  jewel  that  he  placed  upon 
her  finger  as  he  parted  in  the  soft  Italian  night,  it  was  the  giver, 
and  the  grace  with  which  the  gift  was  made,  that  won  the 
romantic  fancy  of  the  daughter  of  the  South.  Their  talk  was 
not  of  the  kind  that  lovers  often  use.  He  would  indeed  begin 
with  relating  stories  of  the  English  Court,  in  the  bright  fleeting 
days  before  the  war,  of  the  courtly  refined  revels,  of  the  stately 
dances  and  plays,  and  of  the  boating  parties  on  the  wooded 
Thames ;  but  most  often  the  narrative  changed  its  tone  instinct- 
ively, and  went  on  to  speak  of  sadder  and  higher  things ;  of 
self-denial  and  devotion  of  ladies  and  children,  who  suffered  for 
their  King  without  complaint ;  of  the  Ferrars  and  their  holy 
life  ;  of  the  martyi-ed  Archbishop  and  of  the  King's  death  ;  and 
sometimes  perhaps  of  some  sight  of  battle  and  suffering  the 
narrator  himself  had  seen,  as  when  the  evening  sun  was  shining 
upon  the  grassy  slope  of  Newbury,  and  he  knelt  beside  the  djdng 
Caernarvon,  unmindful  of  the  bullets  that  fell  around. 

"  You  have  deserved  well  of  the  King,"  he  said ;  "  have  you 
no  request  that  I  may  make  to  him,  nothing  for  your  children, 
or  your  wife  1 " 

And  with  bis  eyes  fixed  upon  the  western  horizon  the  Earl 
replied, — 


232  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap.  XXI 

"  No,  I  will  go  hence  with  no  request  upon  my  lips  but  to 
the  King  of  kings." 

How  all  this  pleasant  dalliance  would  have  terminated,  had 
it  continued,  we  have  no  means  of  knowing,  for  a  sudden  and 
unexpected  end  was  put  to  it,  at  any  rate  for  a  time. 

Easter  was  over,  and  the  Cavaliere  had  invited  Inglesant  to 
join  in  a  small  party  to  spend  a  day  or  two  at  his  vineyard  and 
country  house  among  the  Apennines,  assuring  him  that  at  that 
time  of  the  year  the  valleys  and  hill-slopes  were  very  dehghtfuL 

The  evening  before  the  day  on  which  the  little  company  was 
to  start,  Inglesant  had  an  engagement  at  one  of  the  theatres  in 
Florence,  where  a  comedy  or  pantomime  was  being  performed. 
The  comedies  in  Italy  at  this  time  were  paltry  in  character  in 
everything  except  the  music,  which  was  very  good.  Inglesant 
accompanied  a  Signore  Gabriotto,  a  violin  player,  who  was 
engaged  at  the  theatre,  and  of  whom  Inglesant  had  taken 
lessons,  and  with  whom  he  had  become  intimate.  This  man 
was  not  only  an  admirable  performer  on  the  violin,  but  was  a 
man  of  cultivation  and  taste.  He  had  given  much  study  to  the 
music  of  the  ancients,  and  especially  to  their  musical  instruments, 
as  they  are  to  be  seen  in  the  hands  of  the  Apollos,  muses,  fauns, 
satyrs,  bacchanals,  and  shepherds  of  the  classic  sculptors.  As 
they  walked  through  the  streets  in  the  evening  sunlight,  he 
favoured  his  companion,  whom  he  greatly  admu'ed  as  an  excel- 
lent listener,  with  a  long  discourse  on  this  subject,  showing  how 
useful  such  an  inquiry  was,  not  only  to  obtain  a  right  notion 
of  the  ancient  music,  but  also  to  help  us  to  obtain  pleasanter 
instruments  if  possible  than  those  at  present  in  use. 

"  Not,  signore,"  he  said,  "  that  I  think  we  have  much  to 
learn  from  the  ancients ;  for  if  we  are  to  judge  their  instruments 
by  the  appearance  they  make  in  marble,  there  is  not  one  that  is 
comparable  to  our  violins ;  for  they  seem,  as  far  as  I  can  make 
out,  all  to  have  been  played  on  either  by  the  bare  fingers  or  the 
plectrum,  so  that  they  could  not  add  length  to  their  notes,  nor 
could  they  vary  them  by  that  insensible  swelHng  and  dying 
away  of  somid  upon  the  same  string  which  gives  so  wonderful  a 
sweetness  to  our  modern  music.  And  as  far  as  I  can  see,  their 
stringed  instruments  must  have  had  very  low  and  feeble  voices 
from  the  small  proportion  of  wood  used  (though  it  is  difficult 
to  judge  of  this,  seeing  that  all  our  examples  are  rei:)resented 
in  marble),  which  would  prevent  the  instruments  containing 


CHAP.  XXL]  A  ROMANCE.  233 

sufficient  air  to  rei.der  the  strokes  full  or  sonorous.  Now  my 
violin,"  continued  tlie  Italian  with  enthusiasm,  "  does  not  speak 
only  with  the  strings,  it  speaks  all  over,  as  though  it  were  a 
living  creature  that  was  all  voice,  or,  as  is  really  the  case,  as 
though  it  were  full  of  sound." 

"  You  have  a  wonderfid  advantage,"  said  Inglesant,  "  you 
Italians,  that  is,  in  the  cultivation  of  the  art  of  life ;  for  you 
have  the  imbroken  tradition,  and  habit  and  tone  of  mind,  from 
the  old  world  of  pleasure  and  art — a  world  that  took  the  plea- 
sures of  life  boldly,  and  had  no  conscience  to  prevent  its  culti- 
vating and  enjoying  them  to  the  full.  But  I  must  say  that  you 
have  not,  to  my  mind,  improved  dming  the  lapse  of  centiuies, 
nor  is  the  comedy  we  shall  see  to-night  what  might  be  expected 
of  a  people  who  are  the  descendants  of  the  old  Italians  who 
applauded  Terence." 

"The  comedy  to-night,"  said  the  Italian,  "would be  nothing 
mthout  the  music,  the  acting  is  a  mere  pretence." 

"  The  comedy  itself,"  said  Inglesant,  "  would  be  intolerable 
but  for  the  buffoons,  and  the  people  show  their  sense  in  de- 
manding that  place  shaU  be  found  in  every  piece  for  these 
worthies.  The  play  itself  is  stilted  and  unreal,  but  there  is 
always  something  of  irony  and  wit  in  these  characters,  which 
men  have  found  full  of  satire  and  humour  for  foiu-  thousand 
years :  Harlequin  the  reckless  fantastic  youth,  Pantaleone  the 
poor  old  worn-out  '  Senex,'  and  Corviello  the  rog-ue.  In  their 
absurd  impertinences,  in  their  impossible  combinations,  in  their 
mistakes  and  tumbles,  in  their  falling  over  queens  and  running 
up  against  monarchs,  men  have  always  seemed  to  see  some  care- 
less, light-hearted,  half-indifferent  sarcasm  and  satire  upon  their 
own  existence." 

When  they  reached  the  theatre,  the  slant  rays  of  the  setting 
sun  were  shining  between  the  lofty  houses,  and  many  people 
were  standing  about  the  doors.  Inglesant  accompanied  the 
violinist  to  the  door  of  the  play-house,  and  took  his  place  near 
the  orchestra,  at  either  end  of  which  were  steps  leading  up  on 
to  the  stage.  The  evening  sunlight  penetrated  into  the  house 
through  Venetian  blinds,  lighting  up  the  fittings  and  the  audi- 
ence with  a  sort  of  mystic  haze.  The  sides  of  the  stage  were 
crowded  with  gentlemen,  some  standing,  others  sitting  on  small 
stools.  Many  of  the  audience  were  standing,  the  rest  seated 
on  benches.    The  part  occupied  in  modem  theatres  by  the  boxea 


234  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap.  xxi. 

was  furnished  with  raised  seats,  on  which  ladies  and  people  of 
distinction  were  accommodated.     There  was  no  gallery. 

As  the  first  bars  of  the  overture  struck  upon  Inglesant's  ear, 
with  a  long-drawn  tremor  of  the  bass  viols  and  a  shrill  plaintive 
note  of  the  treble  vioHns,  an  irresistible  sense  of  loneUness  and 
desolation  and  a  strange  awe  crept  over  him  and  weighed  down 
his  spirits.  As  the  fantastic  music  continued,  in  which  gaiety 
and  sadness  were  mysteriously  mingled,  the  reverberation  seemed 
to  excite  each  moment  a  clearer  perception  of  those  paths  of 
intrigue  and  of  danger  in  which  he  seemed  to  walk.  The 
uneasy  sentiment  which  accompanied,  he  knew  not  why,  his 
attachment  to  Lauretta,  and  the  insidious  friendship  of  the 
CavaUere,  the  sense  of  insecurity  which  followed  his  footsteps 
in  this  land  of  dark  and  sinful  deeds,  passed  before  his  mind. 
It  seemed  to  his  excited  fancy  at  that  moment  that  the  end 
was  drawing  very  near,  and  amid  the  fascination  of  the  lovely 
music  he  seemed  to  await  the  note  of  the  huntsman's  horn 
which  would  announce  that  the  toils  were  set,  and  that  the 
chase  was  up.  From  the  kind  of  trance  in  which  he  stood  he 
was  aroused  by  hearing  a  voice,  distinct  to  his  ear  and  perfectly 
audible,  though  apparently  at  some  considerable  distance,  say, — ■ 

"  Who  is  that  man  by  the  curtain,  in  black  satin,  with  the 
Point  de  Venice  lace  1" 

And  another  voice,  equally  clear,  answered,  "  His  name  is 
Inglesant,  an  agent  of  the  Society  of  the  Gesu." 

Inglesant  tiu-ned ;  but,  amid  the  crowd  of  faces  behind  him, 
he  could  discern  nothing  that  indicated  the  speakers,  nor  did 
any  one  else  seem  to  have  noticed  anything  unusual.  The  next 
moment  the  music  ceased,  and  with  a  scream  of  laughter  Harle- 
quin bounded  on  the  stage,  followed  by  Pantaleone  in  an  eager 
and  tottering  step,  and  after  them  a  wild  rout  of  figiu'es,  of 
all  orders  and  classes,  who  flitted  across  the  stage  amid  the 
ai^plause  of  the  people,  and  suddenly  disappeared,  while  Harle- 
quin and  Pantaleone  as  suddenly  reappearing,  began  a  lively 
dialogue,  accompanied  by  a  quick  movement  of  the  vioHns.  As 
Inglesant  took  his  eyes  off  the  stage  for  a  moment,  they  fell  on 
the  fig-ure  of  a  man  standing  on  the  flight  of  steps  at  the  farther 
end  of  the  orchestra,  who  regarded  him  with  a  fixed  and  scru'-i- 
nizing  gaze.  It  was  a  tall  and  dark  man,  whose  expression 
would  have  been  concealed  from  Inglesant  but  for  the  fiery  bril- 
liancy of  his  eyes.     Inglesant's  glance  met  his  as  in  a  di-eam, 


CHAP.  XXI.]  A  ROMANCE.  235 

and  remained  fixed  as  thougli  fascinated,  at  which  the  gaze  of 
the  other  became,  if  possible,  more  intense,  as  though  he  too 
Tvere  spell-bound  and  unable  to  turn  away.  At  this  moment 
t)ie  dialogue  on  the  stage  ceased,  and  a  girl  advanced  to  the 
footliglitB  with  a  song,  accompanied  by  the  band  in  an  air 
adapted  from  the  overture,  and  containing  a  repetition  of  the 
opening  bars.  The  association  of  sound  broke  the  spell,  and 
luglesaut  turned  his  eyes  upon  the  singer;  when  he  looked 
again  his  strange  examiner  was  gone. 

The  girl  who  was  singing  was  a  Eoman,  reputed  the  best 
treble  singer  then  in  Italy.  The  sun  by  this  time  was  set,  and 
the  short  twilight  over.  The  theatre  was  sparsely  lighted  by 
candles,  nearly  the  whole  of  the  available  Hght  being  concen- 
trated upon  the  stage.  This  arrangement  produced  striking 
effects  of  light  and  shade,  more  pleasing  than  are  the  brijliantly 
lighted  theatres  of  modern  days.  The  figui'es  on  the  stage  cam^ 
forward  into  full  and  clear  view,  and  faded  again  into  obscurity 
in  a  mysterious  way  very  favom-able  to  romantic  illusion,  and 
the  theatrical  arrangements  were  not  seen  too  clearly.  The 
house  itself  was  shadowy  and  the  audience  unreal  and  unsub- 
stantial ;  the  whole  scene  wore  an  aspect  of  glamour  and  romance 
wanting  at  the  present  day. 

When  the  girl's  song  was  over  there  was  a  movement  among 
the  gentlemen  on  the  stage,  several  coming  down  into  the  house. 
Inglesant  took  advantage  of  this,  and  went  up  on  the  stage, 
from  which  he  might  hope  to  see  something  of  the  stranger 
who  had  been  watching  him  so  closely,  if  he  were  still  in  the 
theatre. 

Several  of  the  actors  who  were  waiting  for  their  turn 
mingled  with  the  gentlemen,  talking  to  their  acquaintance. 
The  strange  light  thrown  on  the  centre  of  the  stage  in  which 
two  or  three  figures  were  standing,  the  multitude  of  dark  forms 
in  the  suiTOunding  shadow,  the  dim  recesses  of  the  theatre 
itself  full  of  figures,  the  exquisite  music,  now  soft  and  plaintive, 
anon  gay  and  dance-like,  then  solemn  and  melancholy,  formed  a 
singular  and  attractive  whole.  Laujretta  had  declined  to  come 
that  night,  but  Inglesant  thought  it  was  not  improbable  that 
the  Cavaliere  would  be  there,  and  he  was  curious  to  see  whether 
he  could  detect  hhu  in  company  with  the  mysterious  stranger. 
From  the  moment  that  he  had  heard  the  distant  voice  inquiring 
his  name,  the  familiar  idea  had  again  occurred  to  his  mind  that 


236  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [chap.  xxi. 

this  could  be  none  other  than  the  murderer  of  his  brother,  of 
whom  he  was  in  search  ;  but  this  thought  had  occurred  so  often, 
and  in  connection  with  so  many  persons,  that  had  it  not  been 
for  the  fixed  and  pecuHar  glance  with  which  the  stranger  had 
regarded  him,  he  would  have  thought  little  of  it.  He  was, 
however,  unable  to  distinguish  either  of  the  persons  of  whom 
he  was  in  search  from  the.  crowd  that  filled  the  theatre ;  and 
his  attention  was  so  much  diverted  by  the  constantly  changing 
scene  before  him  that  he  soon  ceased  to  attempt  to  do  so.  At 
that  moment  the  opening  movement  of  the  overture  was  again 
repeated  by  the  band,  and  was  made  the  theme  of  an  elaborate 
variation,  in  which  the  melancholy  idea  of  the  music  was 
rendered  in  every  variety  of  shade  by  the  plaintive  violins. 
Every  phase  of  sorrow,  every  form  and  semblance  of  giief  that 
Inglesant  had  ever  known,  seemed  to  float  through  his  mind, 
in  sympathy  with  the  sounds  which,  inarticulate  to  the  ear, 
possessed  a  power  stronger  than  that  of  language  to  the  mental 
sense.  The  anticipation  of  coming  evil  naturally  connected 
itself  with  the  person  of  Lauretta,  and  he  seemed  to  see  her 
lying  dead  before  him  upon  the  lighted  stage,  or  standing  in  an 
attitude  of  grief,  looking  at  him  with  wistful  eyes.  This  last 
image  was  so  strongly  presented  to  his  imagination  that  it  par- 
took almost  of  the  character  of  an  apparition  ;  and  before  it  the 
crowded  theatre,  the  gaily  dressed  forms  upon  the  stage,  the 
fantastic  actors,  seemed  to  fade,  and  alone  on  the  deserted 
boards  the  figure  of  Laiu-etta,  as  he  had  last  seen  it,  slight  and 
girl-like  yet  of  noble  bearing,  stood  gazing  at  him  Avith  wild 
and  apprehensive  eyes.  Curiously  too,  as  his  fancy  dwelt  upon 
this  figure,  it  saw  in  her  hand  a  sealed  letter  fastened  with  a 
peculiarly  twisted  cord. 

The  burden  of  sorrow  and  of  anticipated  evil  became  at  last 
too  heavy  to  be  borne,  and  Inglesant  left  the  theatre  and 
returned  to  his  lodgings.  But  here  he  could  not  rest.  Though 
he  had  no  reason  to  visit  the  Count  that  night,  and  though  it 
was  scarcely  seemly,  indeed,  that  he  should  do  so,  yet,  impelled 
by  a  restless  discomfort  which  he  sought  to  quiet,  he  wandered 
again  into  the  streets,  and  found  himself  not  unnaturally  before 
the  old  nobleman's  dwelling.  Once  here,  the  impulse  was  too 
strong  to  be  denied,  and  he  knocked  at  the  low  sunken  door. 
The  house  seemed  strangely  quiet  and  deserted,  and  it  was 
some  time  before  an  old  servant  who  belonged  to  the  lower 


CHAP.  XXII.]  A  ROMANCE.  237 

part  of  the  establishment,  devoted  to  the  sale  of  the  wine, 
appeared  at  the  wicket,  and,  on  being  assured  whom  it  was 
who  knocked  at  that  unseasonable  hour,  opened  the  door. 

The  house  was  empty,  he  averred.  The  family  had  sud- 
denly departed,  whither  he  knew  not.  If  the  signore  was 
pleased  to  go  upstairs,  he  believed  he  would  find  some  letters 
for  him  left  by  the  Cavaliere. 

Inglesant  followed  the  old  man,  who  carried  a  common 
brass  lamp,  which  cast  an  uncertain  and  flickering  glare,  the 
sense  of  evil  growing  stronger  at  every  step  he  took.  His  guide 
led  him  into  the  room  in  which  he  had  first  seen  Laiu-etta, 
which  appeared  bare  and  deserted,  but  showed  no  sign  of  hasty 
departure.  Upon  a  marble  table  inlaid  with  coloured  stones 
were  two  letters,  both  directed  to  Inglesant.  The  one  was  from 
tlie  Cavaliere,  excusing  their  departure  on  the  ground  of  sudden 
business  of  the  highest  political  importance,  the  other  from 
Lauretta,  written  in  a  hasty  trembling  hand.  It  contained  but 
a  few  lines — "that  she  was  obliged  to  follow  her  father;"  but 
Inglesant  hesitated  a  moment  before  he  broke  the  seal,  for  it 
was  tied  round  with  a  curiously  twisted  cord  of  blue  and  yellow 
silk,  as  he  had  seen  in  the  vision  his  excited  fancy  had  created. 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

Lauretta's  letter  had  informed  Inglesant  that  she  would 
endeavoiu-  to  let  him  know  where  she  was ;  and  with  that  hope 
he  was  obliged  to  be  content,  as  by  no  effort  he  could  make 
could  he  discover  any  trace  of  the  fugitives'  route.  Florence, 
however,  became  distasteful  to  him,  and  he  would  have  left  it 
sooner  but  for  an  attack  of  fever  which  prostrated  him  for 
some  time.  Few  foreigners  were  long  in  Italy,  in  those  days, 
without  suffering  from  the  climate  and  the  miasmas  and  un- 
healthy vapoLU's,  which,  especially  at  night,  were  so  hurtful  even 
to  those  accustomed  to  the  country.  In  his  illness  Inglesant 
was  carefully  nursed  by  some  of  the  Jesuit  fathers,  and  those 
whom  they  recommended ;  and  it  is  possible  that  they  took  care 
that  he  should  not  be  left  too  much  to  the  care  of  the  physicians, 
whose  attentions,  at  that  period  at  any  rate,  were  so  often  fatal 
to  their  patients.     In  the  course  of  a  few  weeks  he  was  suffi- 


238  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [CHAP.  XXII. 

ciently  recovered  to  think  of  leaving  Florence,  and  he  despatched 
a  messenger  to  Don  Agostino,  begging  him  to  meet  him  at 
Lucca,  where  they  might  decide  either  to  visit  Venice  or  go  on 
straight  to  Kome.  It  was  not  without  some  lingering  hope 
that  he  might  find  Lam-etta  in  the  town  of  her  birth,  that  he 
set  out  for  Lucca,  but  misfortune  followed  his  path.  It  was 
reported  that  the  plagaie  had  broken  out  in  Florence,  and 
travellers  who  were  known  to  have  come  from  thence  were  re- 
garded with  great  suspicion.  Ingiesanfs  appearance,  recently 
recovered  from  sickness,  was  not  in  hid  favour ;  and  at  Fucec- 
chio,  a  small  town  on  the  road  to  Lucca,  he  was  arrested  by  the 
authorities,  and  confined  by  them  in  the  pest-house  for  forty 
days.  It  was  a  building  which  had  formerly  been  a  gentleman's 
house,  and  possessed  a  small  garden  surrounded  by  a  high  w^alL 
In  this  dreary  abode  Inglesant  passed  many  solitary  days,  the 
other  inmates  being  three  or  four  unfortunates  like  himself, — • 
travellers  on  business  through  the  country, — who,  their  affairs 
being  injured  by  their  detention,  were  melancholy  and  despond- 
ent. He  was  short  of  money,  and  for  some  time  was  unable 
to  communicate  with  any  of  his  friends  either  in  Florence  or 
Sienna.  With  nothing  but  his  own  misfortunes  to  brood  upon, 
and  with  the  apprehension  of  the  future,  which  almost  amounted 
to  religious  melancholy,  frequently  before  his  mind,  it  is  sur- 
prising that  he  kept  his  reason.  To  add  to  his  misfortunes,' 
when  the  greater  portion  of  the  time  fixed  for  his  detention 
was  expired,  one  of  the  inmates  of  the  pest-house  suddenly 
died ;  and  although  the  physicians  pronounced  his  disease  not 
to  be  the  plague,  yet  the  authorities  decreed  that  all  should 
remain  another  forty  days  within  its  dreary  walls.  The  death 
of  this  person  greatly  aff'ected  Inglesant,  as  he  was  the  only 
one  of  the  inmates  with  whom  he  had  contracted  any  intimacy. 
■  During  the  first  part  of  his  sojourn  here,  there  was  brought 
to  the  hou.-ic  ;is  an  inmate,  a  wandering  minstrel,  who,  the 
fii'st  evening  of  his  stay,  attracted  the  whole  of  the  gloomy 
society  around  him  by  his  playing.  He  played  upon  a  small 
and  curiously  shaped  instrument  called  a  vielle,  somewhat  like 
a  child's  toy,  with  four  strings,  and  a  kind  of  small  wheel  in- 
stead of  a  bow.  It  was  commonly  used  by  blind  men  and 
beggars  in  the  streets,  and  was  considered  a  contemptible  in- 
strmnent,  though  some  of  these  itinerant  performers  attained  to 
such  skiU  upon  it  that  thoy  could  make  their  hearers  laugh  and 


CHAP.  XXII.]  A  ROMANCE.  239 

dance,  and  it  was  said  even  weep,  as  they  stood  around  them 
in  the  crowded  streets.  Inglesant  soon  perceived  that  the  man 
was  no  contemptible  musician,  and  after  his  performance  was 
over  he  entered  into  conversation  with  him,  asking  him  why  he, 
who  could  play  so  well,  was  content  with  so  poor  an  instru- 
ment. The  man,  who  appeared  to  have  a  great  deal  of  intelli- 
gence and  humour,  said  that  he  was  addicted  to  a  wandering 
and  unsettled  life,  among  the  poorer  and  disorderly  classes  in 
the  low  quarters  of  cities,  in  mountain  villages,  and  in  remote 
hostelries  and  forest  inns;  that  the  possession  of  a  valuable 
viol,  or  other  instrument,  even  if  he  should  practise  sufficient 
self-denial  to  enable  him  to  save  money  to  purchase  such  a  one, 
would  be  a  constant  anxiety  to  him,  and  a  source  of  danger 
among  the  wild  companions  with  whom  he  often  associated. 
"  Besides,  signore,"  he  said,  "  I  am  attached  to  this  poor  little 
friend  of  mine,  who  will  speak  to  me  though .  to  none  else.  I 
have  learnt  the  secrets  of  its  heart,  and  by  what  means  it  may 
be  made  to  discourse  eloquently  of  human  life.  You  may  de- 
spise my  instrument,  but  I  can  assure  you  it  is  far  superior  to 
the  guitar,  though  that  is  so  high-bred  and  genteel  a  gentleman, 
found  in  all  romances  and  ladies'  bowers.  For  any  music  that 
depends  upon  the  touch  of  a  string,  and  is  limited  in  the  dura- 
tion of  the  distinct  sounds,  is  far  inferior  to  this  Httle  fellow's 
voice." 

"You  seem  trained  to  the  profession  of  music,"  said 
Inglesant. 

"  I  was  serving-lad  to  an  old  musician  in  Rome,  who  not 
only  played  on  several  instruments,  but  gave  a  great  deal  of 
time  to  the  study  of  the  science  of  harmony,  and  of  the  mysteries 
of  music.  He  was  fond  of  me,  and  taught  me  the  viol,  as  I 
was  apt  to  learn." 

"I  have  heard  of  musicians,"  said  Inglesant,  "who  have 
written  on  the  philosophy  of  sound.  He  was  doubtless  one  of 
them." 

"There  are  things  concerning  musical  instruments,"  said 
the  man,  "very  wonderftd;  such  as  the  laws  concerning  the 
octaves  of  flutes,  which,  make  them  how  you  will,  you  can 
never  alter,  and  which  show  how  the  principles  of  harmony 
prevail  in  the  dead  things  of  the  world,  which  we  think  so 
blockish  and  stupid;  and  what  is  more  wonderful  still,  the 
passions  of  men's  souls,  which  are  so  wild  and  untamable,  are 


240  JOHN  INGLE5 ANT  j  [CHAP.  XXII. 

all  ruled  and  kept  in  a  strict  measure  and  mean,  for  they  are 
all  concerned  in  and  wrought  upon  by  music.  And  what  can 
be  more  wonderful  than  that  a  maestro  in  the  art  can  take 
delight  in  sound,  though  he  does  not  hear  it ;  and  when  he 
looks  at  some  black  marks  upon  paper,  he  hears  intellectually, 
and  by  the  power  of  the  soul  alone  V 

"  You  speak  so  well  of  these  things,"  said  Inglesant,  "  that 
I  wonder  you  are  content  to  wander  about  the  world  at  village 
fairs  and  country  weddings,  and  do  not  rather  establish  yourself 
in  some  great  town,  where  you  might  follow  your  genius  and 
earn  a  competence  and  fame." 

"  I  have  already  told  you,"  replied  the  man,  "  that  I  am 
wedded  to  this  kind  of  life ;  and  if  you  could  accompany  me 
for  some  months,  with  your  viol  d'amore,  across  the  mountains, 
and  through  the  deep  valleys,  and  into  the  old  towns,  where  no 
travellers  ever  come,  and  where  all  stands  still  from  century  to 
century,  you  would  never  leave  it,  any  more  than  I  shall.  I 
could  tell  you  of  many  strange  sights  I  have  witnessed,  and  if 
we  stay  long  in  this  place,  perhaps  you  will  be  glad  to  hear 
some  tales  to  while  away  the  time." 

"  You  spoke  but  now,"  said  Inglesant,  "  of  the  power  that 
music  has  over  the  passions  of  men.  I  should  like  to  hear 
somewhat  more  of  this." 

"  I  will  tell  you  a  curious  tale  of  that  also,"  said  the  man. 


THE  VIELLE-PLAYER'S  STORY. 

"Some  twenty-five  years  ago  there  lived  in  Rome  two 
friends,  who  were  both  musicians,  and  greatly  attached  to  each 
other.  The  elder,  whose  name  was  Giacomo  Andrea,  was 
maestro  di  capella  of  one  of  the  Churches,  the  other  was  an 
accomplished  lutinist  and  singer.  The  elder  was  a  cavaliere 
and  a  man  of  rank ;  the  younger  of  respectable  parentage,  of 
the  name  of  Vanneo.  The  style  of  music  in  which  each  was 
engaged  was  sufficiently  different  to  allow  of  much  friendly 
contention  ;  and  many  lively  debates  took  place  as  to  the 
respective  merits  of  '  Son  ate  da  Chiesa'  and  '  Sonate  da  Camera.' 
Their  respective  instmments  also  afforded  ground  for  friendly 
dispute.  Vanneo  was  very  desirous  that  his  friend  shoidd 
introduce  viols  and  other  instruments  into  the  service,  in  concerfc 


CHAP.  XXII.]  A  ROMANCE.  241 

with  the  voices,  in  the  Church  in  which  Vanneo  himself  sang 
in  the  choir ;  but  the  Cavaliere,  who  considered  this  a  practice 
derived  from  the  theatre,  refused  to  avail  himself  of  any 
instrument  save  the  organ.  Vanneo  was  more  successful  in 
inducing  his  friend  to  practise  upon  his  favourite  instrument 
the  lute,  though  Andrea  pretended  at  first  to  despise  it  as  a 
ladies'  toy,  and  liable  to  injure  the  shape  of  the  performer. 
His  friend,  however,  though  devoted  to  secular  music,  brought 
to  the  performance  and  composition  of  it  so  much  taste  and 
correct  feeling,  that  Andrea  was  ravished  in  spite  of  himself, 
and  of  his  preference  to  the  solemn  music  of  the  Church. 
Vanneo  excelled  in  contrasting  melancholy  and  pensive  music 
with  bright  and  lively  chords,  mingling  weeping  and  laughter  in 
some  of  the  sweetest  melodies  that  imagination  ever  suggested. 
He  accompanied  his  own  voice  on  the  lute,  or  he  composed 
pieces  for  a  single  voice  with  accompaniment  for  violins.  In  a 
word,  he  won  his  friend  over  to  this  gTave  chamber  music,  in 
some  respects  more  pathetic  and  serious  than  the  more  mono- 
tonous masses  and  sonatas  of  the  Church  composers.  Vanneo 
composed  expressly  for  this  purpose  fantasies  on  the  chamber 
organ,  interposed,  now  and  then,  with  stately  and  sweet  dance 
music,  such  as  Pavins  (so  named  from  the  walk  of  a  peacock), 
Almains,  and  other  delightful  airs,  upon  the  violins  and  lute. 
In  these  fancies  he  blended,  as  it  were,  pathetic  stories,  gay 
festivities,  and  sublime  and  subtle  ideas,  all  appealing  to  the 
secret  and  intellectual  faculties,  so  that  the  music  became  not 
only  an  exponent  of  life  but  a  divine  influence.  After  these 
delightful  meetings  had  continued  for  several  years,  circum- 
stances obliged  Vanneo  to  accompany  a  patron  to  France,  and 
from  thence  he  went  over  into  England,  to  the  great  King  of 
that  nation,  as  one  of  his  private  musicians ;  for  the  Queen  of 
England  was  a  French  Princess,  and  was  fond  of  the  lute. 
His  departure  was  a  great  grief  to  the  Cavaliere,  who  devoted 
himself  more  than  ever  to  Chiu:ch  music  and  to  the  offices  of 
religion.  He  was  a  man  of  very  devout  temper,  and  was  dis- 
tinguished for  his  benevolent  disposition,  and  especially  for  his 
compassion  for  the  poor,  whom  he  daily  relieved  in  crowds  at 
his  own  door,  and  in  the  prisons  of  Rome,  which  he  daily 
visited.  From  time  to  time  he  heard  from  his  friend,  to  whom 
he  continued  strongly  attached." 

"  I  was  brought  up  at  the  English  Court,"  said  Inglesant, 


242  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [cHAP.  XXII 

"  and  have  been  trying  to  recall  such  a  man,  but  cannot  recollect 
the  name  you  mention,  though  I  remember  several  lutinists  and 
Italians." 

"I  tell  the  story  as  I  heard  it,"  replied  the  other.  "The 
man  may  have  changed  his  name  in  a  foreign  coimtry.  One 
day  the  Cavaliere  had  received  a  letter  from  his  friend,  brought 
to  him  by  some  English  gentleman  travelling  to  Rome.  Hav- 
ing read  it,  and  spent  some  time  with  the  recollections  that 
its  perusal  suggested  to  his  mind,  he  set  himself  to  the  work 
in  which  he  was  engaged — the  composition  of  a  motet  for  some 
approaching  festival  of  the  Churcli ;  but  although  he  attempted 
to  fix  his  mind  upon  his  occupation,  and  was  very  anxious  to 
finish  his  work,  he  found  himself  unal3le  to  do  so.  The  remem- 
brance of  his  friend  took  complete  possession  of  his  mind ;  and 
his  imagination,  instead  of  dwelling  on  the  solemn  music  of  the 
motet,  wandered  perversely  into  the  allming  world  of  phantasied 
melody  which  Vanneo  had  composed.  Those  sad  and  pensive 
adagios,  passing  imperceptibly  into  the  light  gaiety  of  a  festival, 
never  seemed  so  delightful  as  at  that  moment.  He  rose  from 
time  to  time,  and  walked  to  and  fro  in  his  chamber,  and  as  he 
did  so  he  involuntarily  took  up  a  lute  which  Vanneo  had  left  with 
him  as  a  parting  gift,  and  which  always  lay  within  reach.  As 
he  carelessly  touched  the  strings,  something  of  his  friend's  spirit 
seemed  to  have  inspired  him,  and  the  lute  breathed  again  with 
something  of  the  old  familiar  charm.  Each  time  that  he  took 
it  up,  the  notes  formed  themselves  again  under  his  hand  into  the 
same  melody,  and  at  last  he  took  up  a  sheet  of  paper,  intended 
for  the  motet,  and  scored  down  the  air  he  had  involimtarily 
composed.  His  fancy  being  pleased  with  the  occiu-rence,  he 
elaborated  it  into  a  lesson,  and  showed  it  to  several  of  his  asso- 
ciates. He  gave  it  the  name  of  '  gli  amici,'  and  it  became  very 
popular  among  the  masters  in  Rome  as  a  lesson  for  their  pupils 
on  the  lute.  Among  those  who  thus  learnt  it  was  a  youth  who 
afterwards  became  page  to  a  Florentine  gentleman,  one  Bernard 
Guasconi,  who  went  into  England  and  took  service  under  the 
King  of  that  country,  who,  as  you  doubtless  know  better  than 
I  do,  was  at  war  with  his  people." 

"I  know  the  Cavaliere  Guasconi,"  said  Inglesant,  "and  saw 
him  lately  in  Florence,  where  he  is  training  running  horses  for 
the  Grand  Duke." 

"  This  war,"  con';inued  the  man,  "  appears  to  have  been  the 


CHAP.  XXII.]  A  ROJMANCE.  243 

ruin  of  "Vanneo;  for  the  English  people,  besides  hating  their 
King,  took  to  hatiug  all  kinds  of  music,  and  all  Churches  and 
choristers.  Vanneo  lost  his  place  as  one  of  the  King's  musi- 
cians, and  not  being  able  to  earn  his  living  by  teaching  music 
where  so  few  cared  to  learn,  he  was  forced  to  enhst  as  a  soldier 
in  one  of  the  King's  armies,  and  was  several  times  near  losing 
his  Hfe.  He  escaped  these  dangers,  however ;  but  the  army  in 
which  he  served  being  defeated  and  dispersed,-  he  wandered 
about  the  country,  wounded,  and  suffering  from  sickness  and 
want  of  food.  He  supported  himself  miserably,  partly  by 
charity,  especially  among  the  loyalist  famihes,  and  partly  by 
giving  singing  lessons  to  such  as  desired  them.  He  was  without 
friends,  or  any  means  of  procuring  money  to  enable  him  to 
return  to  Italy.  As  he  was  walking  in  this  manner  one  day  in 
the  streets  of  London,  without  any  hope,  and  with  scarcely  any 
life,  he  heard  the  sound  of  music.  It  was  long  since  the  melody 
of  a  lute,  once  so  familiar,  had  fallen  on  his  ear ;  and  as  he 
stopped  to  listen,  the  notes  came  to  him  through  the  thick  moist 
air  like  an  angelic  and  divine  murmur  from  another  world.  The 
music  seemed  to  come  from  a  small  room  on  the  ground-floor 
of  a  poor  inn,  and  Vanneo  opened  the  door  and  went  in.  He 
found  a  young  man,  plainly  dressed,  playing  on  a  double-necked 
theorbo -lute,  which,  from  the  number  of  its  strings,  enables, 
as  you  know,  the  skilfid  lutinist  to  play  part  music,  with  all 
the  varieties  of  fugues  and  other  graces  and  ornaments  of  the 
Italian  manner.  The  piece  which  the  young  man  was  play- 
ing consisted  of  an  allegro  and  yet  sweet  movement  on  the 
tenor  strings,  with  a  sustained  harmony  in  thorough  bass. 
The  melody,  being  carefidly  distributed  through  the  parts,  spoke 
to  Vanneo  of  gaiety  and  cheerfulness,  as  of  his  old  Italian 
life,  strangely  combined  at  the  same  time  with  a  soothing 
and  pathetic  melancholy,  like  a  corpse  carried  through  tlie 
streets  of  a  gay  city,  strewn  with  flowers  and  accompanied  with 
tapers  and  singing  of  boys.  The  whole  piece  finished  with  a 
pastorale,  or  strain  of  low  and  sweet  notes.  As  Vanneo  listened 
he  was  transported  out  of  himself.  It  was  not  alone  the  beauty 
of  the  music  which  ravished  him,  but  he  was  conscious  that  a 
mysterious  presence,  as  of  his  friend  the  Cavaliere,  was  with 
him,  and  that  at  last  the  perfect  sympathy  whica  he  had  sought 
so  long  wa^  established ;  and  that  in  the  music  he  had  heard  a 
coTimoi  existence  and  sphere  of  life  was  at  last  created,  in  which 


244  JOHN  inglecant;  [chap,  xxir, 

they  both  lived,  not  any  longer  separate  from  each  other,  but 
enjoying  as  it  were  one  common  being  of  melody  and  ecstatic 
life  of  somid.  When  the  music  ceased  Vanneo  accosted  the 
lutinist  and  inquked  the  name  of  the  composer ;  but  this  the 
young  man  could  not  tell  him.  He  only  knew  it  was  a  favour- 
ite lesson  for  skilful  pupils  among  the  music-masters  in  Kome, 
and  as  such  he  had  learnt  it.  Vanneo  was  confident  the  piece 
had  been  written  by  Andrea,  and  by  none  other,  and  told  the 
young  man  so.  By  this  time  they  had  discovered  that  they 
were  fellow-countrymen,  and  the  lutinist  sent  for  refreshments, 
of  which  Vanneo  stood  very  much  in  need.  He  also  told  him 
that  his  name  was  Scacchi,  and  that  he  was  page  to  the  Signore 
Bernard  Gruasconi,  who  was  then  in  arms  for  the  King,  and  was 
besieged  in  some  town  of  Avhich  I  have  forgotten  the  English 
name." 

"  It  was  Colchester,"  said  Inglesant ;  "I  was  in  prison  at 
the  time  of  the  siege ;  but  I  know  the  history  of  it  and  its  sad 
ending." 

"  Becoming  very  familiar  with  Vanneo,  he  advised  him  to 
accompany  him  to  Colchester.  His  master,  he  said,  would 
doubtless  be  set  at  liberty  immediately  as  a  foreigner  and  a 
friend  of  the  Grand  Duke's,  and  he  could  accompany  him  home 
to  Italy  as  a  domestic.  As  no  better  prospect  was  open  to 
Vanneo  of  retiu-ning  to  his  native  country,  he  gladly  accepted 
the  page's  offer,  and  agreed  to  accompany  him  next  day.  The 
besiegers  of  the  town  which  you  call  Colchester  were  engaging 
persons  from  all  parts  of  the  country  to  work  their  trenches,  and 
the  town  not  being  far  from  London,  many  persons  went  from 
that  place  to  earn  the  wages  offered.  Many  of  the  Loyalist» 
also  took  advantage  of  this  pretext,  intending  to  .join  the 
besieged  if  a  favourable  opportunity  offered.  To  one  of  these 
parties  Vanneo  and  the  page  joined  themselves.  You  may 
wonder  that  I  know  so  much  of  these  matters,  but  I  have  heard 
the  story  several  times  repeated  by  the  page  himself.  The 
weather  was  very  cold  and  wet,  and  the  companions  underwent 
much  hardship  on  their  march.  They  travelled  through  a  flat 
and  marshy  country,  full  of  woods  and  gTOves  of  trees,  and 
crossed  with  dykes  and  streams.  Vanneo,  however,  who  had 
endured  so  much  privation  and  suffering,  began  to  sink  under 
his  fatigues.  After  travelling  for  more  than  two  days  they 
ftrrived  at  the  leaguer.     They  were  told  tliat  the  besieged  were 


CHAP.  XXII.]  .  A  ROMANCE.  245 

expected  every  day  to  surrender  at  discretion;  but  they  were 
sent  into  the  trenches  with  several  other  vohmteers  to  relieve 
those  already  there,  many  of  whom  were  exhausted  with  the 
work,  and  were  deserting.  As  they  arrived  at  the  extreme 
limit  of  the  lines  the  besiegers  had  planted  four  great  pieces  of 
battering  cannon  against  the  town,  and  fired  great  shot  all  the 
forenoon,  without,  however,  doing  much  damage.  The  Eoyalists 
mustered  all  their  troops  upon  the  line,  intending,  as  it  after- 
wards appeared,  to  break  out  at  night  and  force  their  way 
through  the  leaguer.  The  lines  were  so  close  that  the  soldiers 
could  throw  stones  at  each  other  as  they  lay  in  the  trenches ; 
and  Vauneo  and  the  page  could  see  the  King's  officers  plainly 
upon  the  city  walls.  The  Eoyalists  did  not  fire,  being  short  of 
ammunition,  and  in  the  night  a  mutiny  took  place  among  some 
of  the  foot-soldiers,  which  prevented  the  project  of  cutting  their 
way  out  from  taking  effect.  The  soldiers  of  both  armies  were 
now  already  mixed  on  many  places  upon  the  line,  and  no  fire 
was  given  on  either  side,  as  though  the  Royalists  were  already 
prisoners.  The  page  left  Vanneo,  who  was  worn-out  and  ill, 
and  easily  made  his  way  into  the  town,  where  he  found  his 
master.  When  he  returned  to  the  trenches  he  found  Vanneo 
very  ill,  and  a  physician  with  him,  a  doctor  of  the  town,  named 
Gibson,  as  I  remember,  who  told  the  page  that  he  thought  his 
companion  was  dying.  Vanneo,  in  fact,  appeared  to  be  insen- 
sible, his  eyes  were  closed,  and  he  was  perfectly  pale.  He  lay 
in  a  small  house,  just  within  the  lines,  which  had  been  deserted 
by  its  inhabitants,  who  were  weavers.  The  gentlemen  were 
under  arrest  in  the  town,  and  it  was  reported  that  several  were 
to  be  immediately  shot,  of  whom  it  was  whispered  the  Signore 
Guasconi  was  to  be  one.  About  two  in  the  afternoon  the 
general  of  the  besieging  army  entered  the  town,  and  a  great 
rabble  of  the  soldiers  with  him.  The  latter  broke  into  many 
houses  to  search  for  plunder,  and  among  them  into  that  in  which 
Vanneo  was  lying.  As  they  came  into  the  room  and  saw  the 
dying  man,  they  stopped  and  began  to  question  the  page  as  to 
who  he  was.  Before  he  could  reply  Vanneo  opened  his  eyes 
with  a  smile,  raised  himself  suddenly  from  the  straw  on  which 
he  lay,  and,  stretching  out  his  hand  eagerly  as  one  who  welcomes 
a  friend,  exclaimed  in  Italian,  *  CavaHere,  the  consonance  is 
complete  ;'  and  having  said  this  he  fell  back  upon  the  straw 
again,  and,  the  smile  still  upon  his  face,  he  died." 


^46  JOHN  INGLESANT;  JcHAP.  XXII. 

The  musician  stopped  a  moment,  and  then  glancing  at 
Inglesant  with  a  curious  look  said,  "  It  is  confidently  said  that 
about  that  very  moment  the  Cavaliere  Andrea  died  at  Rome ; 
at  any  rate,  when  the  page  returned  to  Italy  and  inquired  for 
him  at  Rome,  he  was  dead.  He  caught  a  fever  in  one  of  his 
visits  to  the  prisons,  and  died  in  a  few  days." 

"  Did  the  page  tell  you  of  the  two  gentlemen  who  were  shot 
at  Colchester  V  said  Inglesant. 

"  Yes,  he  told  me  that  Guasconi  stood  by  with  his  doublet 
off  expecting  his  turn ;  but  when  the  others  were  shot  he  was 
taken  back  to  his  prison.  They  only  found  out  he  was  an 
Italian  by  his  asking  leave  to  write  to  the  Grand  Duke." 

"  I  have  been  told,"  he  continued,  "  that  this  poor  King 
was  a  great  lover  of  music,  and  played  the  bass  viol  himself." 

"  He  was  a  great  admirer  of  Church  music,"  said  Inglesant; 
"  I  have  often  seen  him  appoint  the  service  and  anthems  him- 
self." 

As  the  conversation  of  this  man  was  a  great  entertainment 
to  Inglesant,  so  his  sudden  and  unexpected  death  was  a  great 
shock  to  him.  The  physician  could  give  no  clear  explanation 
of  his  disease,  and  the  general  opinion  was  that  he  died  of  the 
plague,  though  it  was,  of  com-se,  the  interest  of  every  one  in  the 
pest-house  that  this  should  not  be  acknowledged. 

A  few  days  after  the  burial  two  of  the  Jesuit  Fathers  arrived 
from  Florence,  accompanied  by  Don  Agostino,  who,  having  in 
vain  waited  for  his  friend  at  Lucca,  had  sought  him  at  Florence, 
and  finally  traced  him  to  his  dreary  prison.  By  their  influence 
Inglesant  was  allowed  to  depart ;  and  actuated  still  by  his 
desire  to  see  Venice,  set  out,  accompanied  by  Don  Agostino,  in 
the  hope  of  reaching  that  city.  They  crossed  the  Apennines, 
and  journeyed  by  Modena,  Mantua,  Verona,  and  Padua.  These 
places,  which  at  other  times  would  have  excited  in  Inglesant 
the  liveliest  interest,  were  passed  by  him  now  as  in  a  dream. 
The  listless  indifference  which  grew  day  by  day  developed  at 
Padua  into  absolute  illness ;  and  Agostino  took  lodgings  for 
his  friend  in  one  of  the  deserted  palaces  of  which  the  city  was 
full.  A  few  days'  rest  from  travel,  and  from  the  excitement 
produced  by  novel  scenes  and  by  the  scorching  plains,  had  a 
soothing  and  beneficent  effect;  but  Venice  being  reported  to 
be  at  that  time  peculiarly  unheal th>,  tind  Inglesant  becoming 
sensible  that  he  was  physically  unable  to  prosecute  any  inquiriea 


CHAP.  XXII.]  A  ROMANCK  247 

there,  the  friends  resolved  to  abandon  their  journey  in  that 
direction,  and  to  return  towards  Rome.  At  this  juncture  Don 
Agostino  received  letters  which  compelled  him  to  return  hastily 
to  Sienna,  and  after  spending  a  few  days  vnth  his  friend,  he 
left,  promising  to  return  shortly  and  accompany  Inglesant  to 
Eome,  when  he  was  sufficiently  recruited  by  a  few  weeks' 
repose. 

The  failure  of  the  silk  trade,  owing  to  the  importation  of 
silk  from  India  into  Europe,  had  destroyed  the  prosperity  of 
many  parts  of  Italy;  and  in  Padua  long  streets  of  deserted 
mansions  attested  by  their  beauty  the  wealth  and  taste  of  the 
nobility,  whom  the  loss  of  the  rents  of  their  mulberry  groves 
had  reduced  to  ruin.  Many  houses  being  empty,  rents  were 
exceedingly  cheap,  and  the  country  being  very  plentiful  in  pro- 
duce, and  the  air  very  good,  a  Httle  money  went  a  long  way  in 
Padua.  There  was  something  about  the  quiet  gloomy  town, 
with  its  silent  narrow  streets  and  its  winding  dim  arcades, — 
by  which  you  might  go  from  one  end  of  the  city  to  the  other 
under  a  shady  covert, — that  soothed  Inglesant's  weary  senses 
and  excited  brain. 

His  was  that  sad  condition  in  which  the- body  and  the  mind, 
being  equally,  like  the  several  strings  of  an  ill-kept  lute,  out  of 
tune,  jarred  upon  each  other,  the  pains  of  the  body  causing 
phantasms  and  delusions  of  the  mind.  His  disappointment  and 
illness  at  Florence,  his  long  confinement  in  the*  pest-house,  and 
the  sudden  death  of  his  friend  the  poor  musician,  preyed  upon 
his  spirits  and  followed  him  even  in  his  dreams ;  and  his  body 
being  weakened  by  suffering,  and  his  mind  depressed  by  these 
gloomy  events  and  images,  the  old  spiritual  terrors  returned 
with  augmented  force.  Nature  herself,  in  times  of  health  and 
happiness  so  allm-iug  and  kind,  tm'ns  against  the  wretch  thus 
deprived  of  other  comfort.  The  common  sights  and  events  of 
life,  at  one  time  so  full  of  interest,  became  hateful  to  him ;  and 
amid  the  solemn  twilights  and  gorgeous  sunsets  of  Italy,  his 
imagination  was  oppressed  by  an  intolerable  presentiment  of 
coming  evU.  Finally,  he  despaired  of  himself,  his  past  life 
became  hateful  to  him,  and  nothing  in  the  future  promised  a 
hope  of  greater  success.  -  He  saw  himself  the  mere  tool  of  a 
political  faction,  and  to  his  disordered  fancy  as  little  better  than 
a  hireling  bravo  and  mercenary.  The  rustling  of  leaves,  the 
falling  of  water,  the  summer  breeze,  uttered  a  pensive  and 


248  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [cHAP.  XXIL 

melancholy  voice,  which  was  not  soothing,  but  was  h'ke  the 
distant  moaning  of  sad  spirits  foreboding  disaster  and  disgrace. 
On  his  first  arrival  in  Padua  Don  Agostino  had  introduced  him 
to  two  or  three  ecclesiastics,  whose  character  and  conversation 
he  thought  would  please  his  friend ;  but  Inglesant  made  little 
effort  to  cultivate  their  acquaintance.  His  principal  associate 
was  the  Prior  of  the  Benedictine  monastery,  a  mile  or  two 
beyond  the  Ferrara  Gate,  who,  becoming  at  last  distressed  at 
his  condition,  advised  him  to  consult  a  famous  physician  named 
Signore  Giovanni  Zecca. 

This  man  had  the  reputation  of  a  wit,  maintained  chiefly 
by  a  constant  study  of  Boccalini's  "  Parnassus,"  with  quotations 
from  which  work  he  constantly  adorned  his  discom^se.  He 
found  Inglesant  prostrate  on  a  couch  in  his  apartment,  with 
the  Prior  by  his  side.  The  room  had  been  the  state  reception- 
room  of  the  former  possessor,  and  the  windows,  which  were 
open,  looked  upon  the  wide  space  within  one  of  the  gates.  It 
was  the  most  busy  part  of  the  city,  and  for  that  reason  the 
rooms  had  been  chosen  by  Don  Agostino,  as  commanding  the 
most  agreeable  and  lively  jDrospect. 

The  Prior  having  explained  to  the  physician  the  nature  of 
Inglesant's  malady,  as  far  as  he  was  acquainted  with  it,  inquired 
whether  the  situation  of  the  rooms  seemed  suitable  to  the 
doctor,  or  whether  it  would  be  well  to  remove  to  some  country 
house.  The  scene  from  the  windows  indeed  was  very  lively, 
and  might  be  considered  too  distracting  for  an  invalid.  The 
prospect  commanded  the  greater  part  of  the  Piazza,  or  Place 
d'Armes,  the  gate  and  drawbridges  and  the  glacis  outside,  with 
a  stretch  of  country  road  beyond,  lined  with  poplars.  This 
extensive  stage  was  occupied  by  ever-varying  groups, — soldiers 
on  guard  in  stiff  and  picturesque  uniform,  men  carrying  burdens, 
pack-horses,  oxen,  now  and  then  a  carriage  with  a  string  of 
horses  and  with  running  footmen,  peasant  women,  priests, 
children,  and  beggars,  with  sometimes  a  puppet-show,  or  a 
conjuror  with  apes,  and  side  by  side  with  these  last,  in  strange 
incongruity,  the  procession  of  the  Host. 

"  From  what  I  know  of  this  gentleman's  malady  and  dis- 
position," said  the  physician,  "I  should  suppose  that  these 
sights  and  soimds,  though  perhaps  hurtful  to  his  physical 
nature,  are  so  dear  to  his  moral  nature  that  to  speak  against 
them   were   useless.      These    sounds,    though    physically   un- 


OTAP.  XXUA  A  ROMANCR  249 

pleasant,  contain  to  the  philosophic  mind  such  moral  beauty 
as  to  be  attractive  in  the  highest  degree,  and  to  such  a  natiu-e 
as  this  my  patient  possesses  offer  a  fascination  which  it  would 
be  unwise  to  contend  against." 

"  If,"  said  the  Prior  to  Inglesant  with  a  smile,  "  your  case 
requires  philosophic  treatment,  you  are  fortunate  in  having 
seciured  tlie  advice  of  Signore  Zecca,  who  has  the  reputation 
of  a  philosopher  and  wit,  as  well  as  that  of  a  most  sldiful 
physician." 

"  With  respect  to  my  calling  as  a  physician,  I  may  make 
some  claim  certainly,"  said  the  doctor,  "if  descent  has  any 
title  to  confer  excellence,  for  my  great-grandfather  was  that 
celebrated  Giovanni  Zecca,  after  whom  I  am  named,  the  Physician 
of  Bologna,  whom  you  will  find  mentioned  in  the  most  witty 
'  Kagguagli '  of  Messere  Trajano  Boccahni ;  therefore,  if  I  iail 
fn  my  profession,  it  is  not  for  want  of  generations  of  experience 
and  precept ;  but  as  regards  my  proficiency  as  a  philosopher,  I 
have  no  one  to  depend  upon  but  myself,  and  my  proficiency  is 
indeed  but  small." 

"  You  are  pleased  to  say  so,  Signore  Fisico,"  said  Inglesant 
languidly,  "  with  the  modesty  usual  with  great  minds ;  never- 
theless the  remark  which  you  have  just  made  shows  you  to  be 
familiar  with  the  deepest  of  all  philosophy,  that  of  human  life. 
It  is  my  misfortune  that  I  am  too  deeply  impressed  already 
with  the  importance  of  this  philosophy,  and  it  iS  my  inadequate 
following  of  its  teaching  which  is  killing  me." 

"  It  is  a  subject  of  ciurious  study,"  said  the  physician,  "  for 
perplexity  perhaps,  certainly  for  much  satire,  but  scarcely,  I 
should  think,  for  martyrdom.  The  noblest  things  in  life  are 
mixed  with  the  most  ignoble,  great  pretence  with  infinite 
substance,  vain-glory  with  solidness.  The  fool  of  one  moment, 
the  martyr  of  the  next :  as  in  the  case  of  that  Spaniard 
mentioned  by  Messere  Boccalini,  whose  work  doubtless  you 
know,  signore,  but  if  not,  I  should  recommend  its  perusal  as 
certain  to  do  much  to  work  your  ciu-e.  This  man — the 
Spaniard  I  mean  —  dying  most  gallantly  upon  the  field  of 
honour,  entreated  his  friend  to  see  him  bmied  without  im- 
clothing  him ;  and  mth  these  words  died.  Hi^  body  being 
afterwards  examined,  it  was  found  that  he  who  was  so  sprucely 
dressed,  and  who  had  a  ruff  about  his  neck  so  curiously  wrought 
as  to  be  of  great  value,  had  never  a  shirt  on  his  back.     Thia 


250  JOHN  INGLES  ANT  ;  [chap.  X.CII. 

discovery  caused  great  laughter  among  the  vulgar  sort  of  man- 
kind ;  but  by  order  of  Apollo,  the  great  ruler  of  learning  and 
philosophy,  this  Spaniard  was  given  a  public  and  splendid 
funeral,  equal  to  a  Roman  triumph;  and  an  oration  was 
pronounced  over  him,  who  was  so  happy  that,  in  his  great 
calamity^  he-5£as  carefid  of  his  reputation  before  his  life.  .  His 
noble  fimeral  seems  to  me  rather  to  proclaim  the  fact  that  our 
worst  meannesses  cannot  deprive  us  of  the  dignity  of  that  pity 
which  is  due  to  human  nature  standing  by  the  brink  of  an 
open  grave.  A  man  has  mistaken  the  secret  of  human  life  who 
does  not  look  for  greatness  in  the  midst  of  folly,  for  sparks  of 
nobility  in  the  midst  of  meanness ;  and  the  well-poised  mind 
distributes  with  impartiality  the  praise  and  the  blame." 

"  It  is  my  misfortune,"  replied  Inglesant,  "  that  my  mind 
is  incapable  of  this  well-poised  impartiality,  but  is  worn  out  by 
the  unworthy  conflict  which  the  spirit  within  us  wages  with 
the  meannesses  of  life.  As  the  Psalmist  says,  'The  very 
abjects  make  mouths  at  me,  and  cease  not.' " 

"You  are  like  those  people,  signore,"  said  the  physician, 
"  mentioned  by  Messere  Boccalini,  whom  the  greatest  physicians 
failed  to  cure,  but  who  were  immediately  restored  to  active 
health  by  the  simple  and  common  remedies  of  a  quack.  You 
seek  for  remedies  among  the  stars  and  the  eternal  verities  of 
creation,  whereas  your  ailment  of  mind  arises  doubtless  from 
some  physical  derangement,  which  perchance  a  learner  in  heal- 
ing might  overcome." 

"The  fatal  confusion  of  human  life,"  said  Inglesant,  "is 
surely  too  obvious  a  fact  to  be  accounted  for  by  the  delusions 
of  physical  disease." 

The  physician  looked  at  Inglesant  for  a  moment,  and  said, — 

"Some  time,  signore,  I  will  tell  you  a  story,  not  out  of 
Boccalini,  which  perchance  will  convince  you  that,  strange  as  it 
m-ay  seem,  the  realities  of  life  and  the  delusions  of  disease  are 
not  so  dissimilar  as  you  think." 

"If  it  be  so,"  said  Inglesant,  "your  prescription  is  more 
terrible  than  my  complaint." 

"I  do  not  see  that,"  replied  the  other.  "I  have  said 
nothing  but  wJiat  shoidd  show  you  how  unwise  you  will  be,  if 
you  overlook  the  bodily  ailment  in  searching  into  the  diseases 
of  the  sDul." 

"  I  am  well  aware,"  replied  Inglesant,  "  that  my  ailment  w 


CHAP.  XXII.]  A  ROMANCE.  251 

one  of  the  body  as  well  as, of  the  mind;  but  were  my  body 
made  perfectly  whole  and  sound,  my  cure  could  scarcely  be  said 
to  be  begun." 

"  I  hold  that  most  of  the  sorrows  and  perplexities  of  the 
mind  are  to  be  traced  to  a  diseased  body,"  replied  the  physician, 
not  paying  much  attention  to  what  his  patient  said  ;  "  the 
passion  of  the  heart,  heavy  and  dull  spirits,  vain  imaginations, 
the  vision  of  spectres  and  phantoms,  grief  and  sorrow  without 
manifest  cause, — all  these  things  may  be  cured  by  purging  away 
melancholy  humours  from  the  body,  especially  as  I  conceive 
from  the  meseraic  veins ;  and  the  heart  will  then  be  comforted, 
in  the  taking  away  the  material  cause  of  sorrow,  which  is  not 
to  be  looked  for  in  the  world  of  spirits,  nor  in  any  providential 
government  of  God,  nor  even  in  outward  circumstances  and 
perplexities,  but  in  the  mechanism  of  the  body  itself." 

"  What  cures  do  you  propoimd  that  may  be  hoped  to  work 
such  happy  results'?"  said  the  Prior,  for  Inglesant  did  not 
speak. 

"  We  have  many  such  cures  in  physics — physics  studied  by 
the  light  of  the  heavenly  science,"  said  the  physician ;  "  such  as 
the  Saturica  Sancti  Juliani,  which  grows  plentifully  on  the 
rough  cliffs  of  the  Tyrrhenian  Sea,  as  the  old  Greek  chrono- 
graphers  called  it,  called  St.  Julian's  Rock;  the  Epithymum, 
or  thyme,  which  is  under  Saturn,  and  therefore  very  fitted  for 
melancholy  men ;  the  Febrifuga,  or,  in  our  Italian  tongue, 
Artemisia  Tenuifolia,  good  for  such  as  be  melancholy,  ss(d, 
pensive,  and  without  power  of  speech ;  the  distilled  water  of  the 
Fraga,  or  Strawberry,  drunk  with  white  wine  reviveth  the 
spirits,  and  as  the  holy  Psalmist  says,  '  Lsetificat  cor  hominis ; ' 
and  the  herb  Panax,  which  grows  on  the  top  of  the  Apennine, 
and  is  cherished  in  all  the  gardens  of  Italy  for  its  wonderful 
healing  qualities ;  but  the  liquor  of  it,  which  you  may  buy  in 
Venice,  is  not  distilled  in  Italy,  but  is  brought  from  Alexandria, 
a  city  of  Egypt." 

"You  do  not  speak  of  the  chemical  medicines,"  said  Ingle- 
sant, "  which  were  much  thought  of  in  England  when  I  was  in 
Oxford;  and  many  wonderful  cures  were  worked  by  them, 
though  I  remember  hearing  that  the  young  doctor  who  fii-st 
introduced  them,  and  wrought  some  great  cures,  died  himself 
Boon  after." 

"  I  have  indeed  no  faith  in  the  new  doct#ine  of  chemical 


252  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap,  xxiil. 

compositions  and  receipts,"  said  the  physician,  "which  from 
mere  empirics  must  needs  be  very  dangerous,  but  from  a  man 
that  is  well  grounded  in  the  old  way  may  do  strange  things. 
The  works  of  God  are  freely  given  to  man.  His  medicines  are 
common  and  cheap ;  it  is  the  medicines  of  the  new  physicians 
that  are  so  dear  and  scarce  to  find." 

Signore  Zecca  soon  after  took  his  leave,  promising  to  send 
luglesant  a  cordial,  the  ingredients  of  which  he  said  were 
gathered  on  "a  Friday  in  the  horn-  of  J.upiter,"  and  which 
would  be  sufficient  to  give  sleep,  pleasant  dreams,  and  quiet 
rest  to  the  most  melancholy  man  in  the  world.  For,  as  he 
sensibly  observed,  "  waking  is  a  symptom  which  much  tortm^es 
melancholy  men,  and  must  therefore  be  speedily  helped,  and 
sleep  by  all  means  procured.  To  such  as  you  especially,  who 
have  what  I  call  the  temperament  of  sensibility,  are  fearfid  of 
pain,  covet  music  and  sleep,  and  delight  in  poetry  and  romance, 
sleep  alone  is  often  a  sufficient  remedy." 

The  doctor  frequently  visited  Inglesant,  who  found  his 
humour  and  curious  learning  entertaining ;  and  on  one  occasion, 
when  they  were  alone  together,  he  reminded  him  of  his  promise 
to  relate  a  story  which  would  prove  his  assertion  that  the  ills 
of  the  soul  were  occasioned  by  those  of  the  body. 


Note. — The  MSS.  are  here  imperfect. 


CHAPTER   XXIIL 

In  spite,  however,  of  the  reasonings  and  prescriptions  of  the 
physician,  the  oppression  upon  Inglesant's  brain  became  more 
intolerable.  Every  new  object  seemed  burnt  into  it  by  the 
sultry  outward  heat,  and  by  his  own  fiery  thoughts.  The  livid 
scorched  plains,  with  the  dark  foliage,  the  hot  piazzas  and 
highways,  seemed  to  him  thronged  with  ghastly  phantoms,  all 
occupied  more -or  less  in  some  evil  or  fruitless  work.  As  to  his 
physical  sense  all  objects  seemed  distorted  and  awry,  so  to 
his  mental  perception  the  most  ordinary  events  bore  in  them 
the  germs,  however  slight,  of  that  terrible  act  of  murderous 
terror  that  had  marred  and  ruined  his  own  life.     In  some  form 


OHAP.  XX^Tj.]  A  EOMANCK  253 

or  other,  in  the  passionate  look,  in  the  gambler's  gesture,  in 
the  lover's  glance,  in  the  juggler's  grimace,  in  the  passion  of 
the  little  child,  Lo  saw  the  stealthy  trail  of  the  Italian  murderer, 
before  whose  cowardly  blow  his  brother  fell.  The  cool,  ne- 
glected courts  of  Padua  afforded  no  relief  to  his  racked  brain, 
no  solace  to  his  fevered  fancy.  He  frequented  the  shadowed 
churches  auu^ti^ic*  solemn  masses  daily  without  comfort ;  for  his 
conscience  was  otce  more  weighted  with  the  remembrance  of 
Serenus  de  Cressy,  and  of  his  own  rejection  of  the  narrow  path 
of  the  Holy  Cross.  A  sense  of  oppression  and  confusion  rested 
upon  him  mentally  and  physically,  so  that  he  could  see  no 
objects  steadily  and  clearly  ;  but  without  v/as  a  phantasmagoria 
'  of  terrible  bright  colours,  and  within  a  mental  chaos  and  disorder 
without  a  clue.  A  constant  longing  filled  his  mind  to  accept 
De  Cressy's  offer,  and  he  would  have  returned  to  France  but 
for  the  utter  impossibility  of  making  the  journey  in  his  condi- 
tion of  health.  He  withdrew  himself  more  and  more  from 
society,  and  at  last,  without  informing  his  friends  of  his  inten- 
tion, he  retired  to  a  small  monastery  without  the  city,  about 
a  mile  from  the  Traviso  Gate,  and  requested  to  be  admitted  as 
a  novice.  The  residt  of  this  step  at  the  outset  was  beneficial ; 
for  the  perfect  seclusion,  and  the  dim  light  of  the  cells  and 
shaded  garden,  relieved  the  brain,  and  restored  the  disordered 
sense  of  vision. 

It  was  some  time  before  Don  Agostino  received  intelligence, 
through  the  Prior,  of  this  step  of  his  friend's.  He  immediately 
came  to  Padua,  and  had  several  interviews  with  Inglesant,  but 
apparently  failed  to  produce  any  impression  upon  him.  He 
then  returned  to  Florence,  and  induced  the  Cardinal  Rinu^cini, 
from  whose  influence  upon  Inglesant  he  hoped  much,  to  accom- 
pany him  to  Padua. 

The  Cardinal  was  a  striking-looking  and  singularly  hand- 
some man,  his  countenance  resembling  the  reputed  portraits  of 
Moli^re,  whose  bust  might  be  taken  for  that  of  a  pagan  god. 
There  was  the  same  open,  free  expression,  as  of  a  man  who 
confined  his  actions  by  no  bounds,  who  tasted  freely  of  that 
tree  of  good  and  evil,  which,  it  is  reported,  transforms  a  man 
into  a  god,  and  of  that  other  tree  which,  since  the  flaming 
sword  of  the  cherubim  kept  the  way  to  the  true,  has  passed 
in  the  world  for  the  tree  of  life ;  who  had  no  prejudices  nor 
\  partialities,  but  included  all  mankind,  and  all  the  opinions  of 


^ 


254  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [cpAP.  xciii, 

men,  within  tlie  wide  range  of  perfect  tolerance  ^^^djiofty  in- 
difference.  He  found  Inglesant  in  his  noviceVr'dress  walking 
iu  the  small  walled-in  garden  of  the  monastery,  beneath  the 
mulberry  trees,  his  breviary  in  his  hand.  After  the  first  greeting 
the  Cardinal  inquired  touching  his  health. 

"  You  are  familiar  with  English,  Eminence/'  replied  Ingle- 
sant, "and  remember  Hamlet;  and  you  will  thftfcYoi^^V.vderstand 
the  state  of  a  man  for  whom  the  world  is  toe  strong." 

"It  is  only  the  weak,"  replied  the  Caidinal,  "for  whom 
the  World  is  too  strong.  You  know  what  Terence  says,  *  Ita 
vita  est  hominum  quasi  cum  ludas  tesseris,'  or,  as  we  should 
rather  say,  'Life  is  like  a  game  of  cards  ;'  you  cannot  control 
the  cards,  but  of  such  as  turn  up  you  must  make  the  most." 

"  Illud  quod  cecidit  forte,  id  arte  ut  corrigas." 

"  The  freewill,  the  reason,  and  the  power  of  self-command, 
struggle  perpetually  with  an  array  of  chance  incidents,  of 
mechanical  forces,  of  material  causes,  beyond  foresight  or  con- 
trol, but  not  beyond  skilful  management.  This  gives  a  delicate 
zest  and  point  to  life,  which  it  would  surely  want  if  we  had 
the  power  to  frame  it  as  we  would.  We  did  not  make  the 
world,  and  are  not  responsible  for  its  state  ;  but  we  can  make 
life  a  fine  art,  and,  taking  things  as  we  find  them,  like  wise 
men,  mould  them  as  may  best  serve  our  own  ends." 

"  We  .axejiot..4JjLilisejjj^our^  Emin£iu3e,  and  the  ends  that 
sonaejgfus^nijLkfiLQiii-  aim  .axe  fj^r.  beyond  our^reajih." 

"  I  was  ever  moderate  in  my  desires,"  said  the  Cardinal 
with  a  smile  ;  "  I  shoot  at  none  of  these  high-flying  game.  I 
am  content  to  live  from  day  to  day,  and  leave  the  future  to 
the  gods ;  in  the  meantime  sweetening  life  as  I  9fen  with  some 
pleasing  toys  here  and  there,  to  relish  it." 

"You  have  read  Don  Quixote,  Eminence,"  said  Inglesant; 
"and  no  doubt  hold  him  to  have  been  mad." 

"  He  was  mad,  doubtless,"  replied  the  Cardinal,  smiling. 

"I  am  mad,  like  him,"  replied  the  other. 

"  I  understand  you,"  said  the  Cardinal ;  "  it  is  a  noble 
madness,  from  which  we  inferior  natures  are  free  ;  nevertheless, 
it  may  be  advisable  for  a  time  to  consult  some  worldly  physician, 
that  by  his  help  this  nobleness  may  be  preserved  a  little  longer 
upon  earth  and  among  men." 

"  No  worldly  physician  knows  the  disease,  much  less  the 
cure,"  said  Inglesant.     "  Don  Quixote  died  in  his  bed  at  last, 


CHAP,  xxiil.l  A  ROMANCE.  255 

talked  down  by  petty  commonplace,  acknowledging  his  madness, 
and  calling  his  noble  life  a  mistake ;  how  much  more  shall  I, 
whose  life  has  been  the  more  ignoble  for  some  transient  gleams 
of  splendour  which  have  crossed  its  path  in  vain  !  The  world 
is  too  strong  for  me,  and  heaven  and  its  solution  of  life's  enigma 
too  far  off." 

"There  is  no  solution,  believe  me,"  said  the  Cardinal,  "no 
solution  of  life's  enigma  worth  the  reading.  But  suppose  there 
be,  you  are  more  likely  to  find  it  at  Rome  than  here.  Put  off 
that  monk's  dress,  and  come  with  me  to  Rome.  What  solution 
can  you  hope  to  find,  brooding  on  your  own  heart,  on  this 
narrow  plot  of  gra.<s,  shut  in  by  lofty  walls  1  You,  and  natures 
like  yours,  make  this  great  error ;  you  are  moralizing  and 
speculating  upon  what  life  ought  to  be,  instead  of  taking  it  as  it 
is ;  and  in  the  meantime  it  slips  by  you,  and  you  are  nothing, 
and  life  is  gone.  I  have  heard,  and  you  doubtless,  in  a  fine 
concert  of  viols,  extemporary  descant  upon  a  thorough  bass  in 
the  Italian  manner,  when  each  performer  in  turn  plays  such 
variety  of  descant,  in  concordance  to  the  bass,  as  his  skill  and 
present  invention  may  suggest  to  him.  In  this  manner  of  play 
the  consonances  invariably  fall  true  upon  a  given  note,  and 
every  succeeding  note  of  the  ground  is  met,  now  in  the  unison 
or  octave,  now  in  the  concords,  preseiTing  the  melody  through- 
out by  the  laws  of  motion  and  somid.  I  have  thought  that 
this  is  life.  To  a  solemn  bass  of  mystery  and  of  the  unseen, 
each  man  plays  his  own  descant  as  his  taste  or  fate  suggests  ; 
but  this  manner  of  play  is  so  governed  and  controlled  by  what 
seems  a  fatal  necessity,  that  all  melts  into  a  species  of  harmony; 
and  even  the  very  discords  and  dissonances,  the  wild  passions 
and  deeds  of  men,  are  so  attempered  and  adjusted  that  without 
them  the  entire  piece  would  be  incomplete.  In  this  way  I  look 
upon  life  as  a  spectacle,  'in  theatro  Indus.'  Have  you  sat  so 
long  that  you  are  tired  already  of  the  play  1" 

"I  have  read  in  some  book,"^  said  Inglesant,  "that  it  is 
not  the  play — only  the  rehearsal.  The  play  itself  is  not  given 
till  the  next  life.  But  for  the  rest  your  Eminence  is  but  too 
right.  There  is  no  solution  within  my  own  heart,  and  no  help 
within  these  walls." 

There  -jan  be  little  doubt  that  had  Inglesant  remained  much 

^  "What  this  book  is,  I  do  not  know.     The  remark  was  made  by  Jean 
Paul,  in  Hesperus,  some  hundred  years  after  Inglesant's  day. 


256  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap,  xxilt 

longer  in  the  monastery,  he  would  have  sunk  into  a  settled 
melancholy.  The  quiet  and  calm,  while  it  soothed  his  brain 
and  relieved  it  of  the  phantoms  that  distracted  it,  allowed  the 
mind  to  dwell  exclusively  upon  those  depressing  thoughts  and 
ideas  which  were  exhausting  his  spirit  and  reducing  him  well- 
nigh  to  despair.  However  undesirable  at  other  times  the 
Cardinal's  philosophic  paganism  might  be,  no  doubt,  at  this 
moment,  his  society  was  highly  beneficial  to  Inglesant,  to 
whom,  indeed,  his  conversation  possessed  a  peculiar  charm.  It 
could,  indeed,  scarcely  fail  to  attract  one  who  himself  sym[)a- 
thized  with  that  philosophy  of  tolerance  of,  and  attraction  to,  the 
multiform  aspects  of  life  which  Paganism  and  the  Cardinnl 
equally  followed.  On  the  other  hand,  Rinuccini  had  frcmi  the 
first  been  personally  strnngly  attracted  towards  Inglesant,  and, 
as  a  matter  of  policy,  attached  just  importance  to  securing  his 
services,  both  on  account  of  what  he  had  learnt  from  his  brother, 
and  from  the  report  of  the  Jesuits. 

After  some  further  conversation  the  Cardinal  returned  to 
Padua  in  triumph,  bringing  Inglesant  with  him,  whom  he 
loaded  with  kindness  and  attention.  A  suite  of  apartments 
was  placed  at  his  disposal,  certain  of  the  Cardinal's  servants 
were  ordered  to  attend  him,  and  the  finest  horses  were  devoted 
to  his  use  on  the  approaching  journey.  After  waiting  in  Padua 
some  days,  to  make  preparations  which  w^re  necessary  in  the 
neglected  state  of  Inglesaut's  affairs,  they  set  out  for  Rome. 
Don  Agostino  was  still  in  Florence,  the  politics  of  his  family 
not  suffering  him  to  visit  the  papal  city  at  present. 

Their  first  day's  journey  took  them,  thi'ough  the  fertile  and 
well-cultivated  Venetian  States,  to  Rovigo,  where  they  crossed 
the  Po,  dividing  the  territory  of  the  Republic  from  the  Ferrarese, 
which  State  had  lately  been  acquired  by  the  Pope. 

This  country,  which,  while  it  possessed  princes  of  its  own, 
had  been  one  of  the  happiest  and  most  beautiful  parts  of  Italy, 
was  now  abandoned  and  uncultivated  to  such  an  extent  that 
the  grass  was  left  unmown  on  the  meadows.  At  Ferrara,  a 
vast  city  which  appeared  to  Inglesant  like  a  city  of  the  dead  a.^ 
he  walked  through  streets  of  stately  houses  Avithout  an  inhabit- 
ant, the  chief  concourse  of  people  was  the  crowd  of  beggars  wiio 
thronged  round  the  Cardinal's  coach.  After  dinner  Inglesant 
left  his  companion,  who  liked  to  linger  over  his  wine,  and 
walked  out  into  the  quiet  streets.     The  long,  deserted  vistas  of 


CHAP.  XXIII.]  A  ROMANCE.  257 

this  vast  city,  sleeping  in  the  light  and  shadow  of  the  afternoon 
sun,  disturbed  now  and  then  only  by  a  solitary  footstep,  pleased 
his  singular  fancies  as  Padua  had  done.  He  entered  several 
of  the  Churches,  which  were  mean  and  poorly  adorned,  and 
spoke  to  several  of  the  priests  and  loiterers.  Everywhere  he 
heard  complaints  of  the  poverty  of  the  place,  of  the  misery  of 
the  people,  of  the  bad  unwholesome  air,  caused  by  the  dearth 
of  inliabitants  to  cultivate  the  land.  When  he  came  to  inquire 
into  the  causes  of  this,  most  held  their  peace ;  but  one  or  two 
idlers,  bolder  or  more  reckless  than  the  rest,  seeing  that  he  was 
a  foreigner,  and  ignorant  that  he  was  riding  in  the  train  of  the 
Cardinal,  whispered  to  him  something  of  the  scycrity  of  tjie 
Papal  government,  and  of  the  heavy  taxes  and  frequent  confis- 
cations by  wnicli  tlie  nephews  of  several  Popes  had  enriched 
themselves,' and  devoured  many  of  the  princij^al  families  of  the 
city,  and  driven  away  many  more.  "They  talk  of  the  ba'dTaiT'," 
said  one  of  these^meh  to  Inglesant ;  "  the  air  was  the  same  a 
century  ago,  when  this  city  was  flouiishing  under  its  own 
princes — princes  of  so  eminent  a  vii'tue,  and  of  so  heroical  a 
nobleness,  that  they  were  really  the  Fathers  of  their  country. 
Nothing,"  he  continued,  with  a  mute  gesture  of  the  hands, 
"can  be  imagined  more  changed  than  this  is  now." 

"But  Bologna  is  under  the  Pope,  also,"  said  Inglesant, 
"  and  is  flourishing  enough." 

"Bologna,"  he  answered,  "delivered  itself  up  to  the  Pope 
dom  upon  a  capitulation,  by  which  there  are  many  privileges 
reserved  to  it.  Crimes  there  are  only  punished  in  the  persons 
of  those  who  commit  them.  There  are  no  confiscations  of 
estates  ;  and  the  good  result  of  these  privileges  is  evident,  for, 
though  Bologna  is  neither  on  a  navigable  river  nor  the  centre 
of  a  sovereignty  where  a  Court  is  kept,  yet  its  happiness  and 
wealth  amaze  a  stranger ;  while  we,  once  equally  fortunate,  are 
like  a  city  in  a  dream." 

Inglesant  returned  to  the  inn  to  the  Cardinal,  and  related 
what  he  had  heard ;  to  all  which  dismal  stories  the  Prelate 
only  replied  by  significant  gesture. 

The  next  morning,  however,  as  he  was  entering  his  carriage, 
followed  by  his  friend,  he  seemed  to  take  particular  notice  of 
the  crowd  of  beggars  that  surrounded  the  inn.  In  Inglesant's 
eyes  they  only  formed  part  (together  with  the  strange,  quiet 
streets,  the  shaded  gardens,  and  the  ever-changing  scenes  of 


258  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [CHAP.  XXIII 

their  journey)  in  tliat  shifting  phantasm  of  form  and  colour, 
meaningless  to  him,  except  as  it  might  suddenly,  and  in  some 
unexpected  way,  become  a  part  and  scene  of  the  fatal  drama 
that  had  seized  upon  and  crippled  his  life.  But  to  the  Cardi- 
nal, who  had  the  training  of  a  politician,  though  he  subordi- 
nated politics  to  enjoyment,  these  swarms  of  beggars  and  these 
decaying  States  had  at  times  a  deeper  interest. 

"  These  people,"  he  said,  as  the  carriage  moved  on,  "  certainly 
seem  very  miserable,  as  you  told  me  last  night.  To  those  whose 
tastes  lay  tliat  way,  it  would  not  be  a  useless  business  to  inquire 
into  these  matters,  and  to  try  to  set  them  right.  Some  day, 
probably  far  distant,  some  of  us,  or  those  like  us  who  clothe  in 
scarlet  and  fine  linen,  will  have  to  pay  a  reckoning  for  these 
things." 

"  They  are  less  unhappy  than  I  am,"  said  Inglesant.  "  As 
to  the  luxurious  persons  of  whom  you  speak,  it  has  been  my 
fate  to  be  of  their  party  all  my  life,  and  to  serve  them  for  very 
poor  reward ;  and  I  doubt  not  that,  when  their  damnation,  of 
which  your  Eminence  speaks,  arrives,  I  shall  share  it  with 
them.  But  it  might  seem  to  one  who  knows  little  of  such 
things  that  some  such  attempt  might  be  looked  for  from  a 
sworn  soldier  and  prince  of  the  Church." 

The  Cardinal  smiled.  The  freedom  with  which  Inglesant's 
sarcastic  humour  showed  itself  at  times,  when  the  melancholy 
fit  was  upon  him,  was  one  of  the  sources  of  attraction  which 
attached  the  young  Englishman  to  his  person. 

"Life  is  short,"  he  said,  "and  the  future  very  uncertain; 
martyrs  have  died,  nay,  still  harder  fate,  have  lived  long  lives 
of  such  devotion  as  that  which  you  wish  me  to  attempt,  and  we 
see  very  little  result.  Christianity  is  not  of  much  use  appa- 
rently to  many  of  the  nations  of  the  earth.  Now,  on  my  side, 
as  I  pass  my  life,  I  certainly  enjoy  this  world,  and  I  as  certainly 
have  cultivated  my  mind  to  sustain,  as  far  as  I  can  foresee  the 
probable,  the  demand  and  strain  that  will  be  put  upon  it,  both 
in  the  exit  from  this  life,  and  in  the  entrance  upon  another. 
Why  then  should  I  renounce  these  two  positive  goods,  and 
embrace  a  life  of  restless  annoyance  and  discomfort,  of  anU*- 
gonism  to  existing  systems  and  order,  of  certain  failure,  disap- 
pointment, and  the  peevish  protestation  of  a  prophet  to  whom 
the  world  will  not  listen  V 

"  There  is  no  reason  why,  certainly,"  said  Inglesant,  "  for  a 


CHAP.  XXIII.  ]  A  ROMANCE.  259 

sane  man  like  your  Eminence.  I  see  clearly,  it  must  only  have 
been  madmen  who  in  all  ages  have  been  driven  into  the  fire 
and  upon  the  sword's  point  in  pursuit  of  an  idea  which  they 
fancied  was  worth  the  pain,  but  which,  as  they  never  realized 
it,  they  could  never  put  to  the  test." 

"  I  perceive  your  irony,"  said  the  Cardinal,  "  and  I  recognize 
your  wit.  What  astonishes  me  is  the  interest  you  take  in  these 
old  myths  and  dreary  services.  The  charm  of  novelty  must 
have  worn  itself  out  by  this  time." 

"Christ  is  real  to  many  men,"  said  Inglesant,  "and  the 
world  seems  to  manifest  within  itself  a  remedial  power  such  as 
may  be  supposed  to  be  His." 

"  I  do  not  dispute  such  a  power,"  replied  the  Cardinal ;  "  1 
only  wonder  at  the  attachment  to  these  old  myths  which  profess 
to  expound  it." 

"The  world  has  now  been  satisfied  with  them  for  some 
centuries,"  said  Inglesant;  "and  for  my  own  part,  I  cannot 
help  thinking  that,  even  in  the  blaze  of  a  purer  Mythos,  some 
of  us  will  look  back  with  longing  to  '  one  of  the  days  of  the 
Son  of  man.'  I  do  not  perceive  either  that  your  Eminence 
attempts  to  improve  matters." 

"  I  can  afford  to  wait,"  replied  the  Cardinal,  with  lofty 
indifference  ;  "the  myths  of  the  world  are  slow  to  change." 

"This  one  certainly,"  replied  Inglesant,  with  a  smile,  "has 
been  slow  to  change,  perhaps  because  men  found  in  it  some- 
thing that  reminded  them  of  their  daily  life.  It  speaks  of 
suffering  and  of  sin.  The  cross  of  Christ  is  composed  of  many 
other  crosses — is  the  centre,  the  type,  the  essence  of  all  crosses. 
We  must  suffer  with  Christ  whether  we  believe  in  Him  or  not. 
We  must  suffer  for  the  sin  of  others  as  for  our  own ;  and  in 
this  suffering  we  find  a  healing  and  purifying  power  and  element. 
That  is  what  gives  to  Christianity,  in  its  simplest  and  most 
unlettered  form,  its  force  and  life.  Sin  and  suffering  for  sin  ;  a 
sacrifice,  itself  mysterious,  offered  mysteriously  to  the  Divine 
Nemesis  or  Law  of  Sin, — dread,  undefined,  unknown,  yet  sure 
and  irresistible,  with  the  iron  necessity  of  law.  This  the  intel- 
lectual Christ,  the  Platonic -Socrates,  did  not  offer:  hence  his 
failure,  aad  the  success  of  the  Nazarene.     Vicisti  Galilaie." 


260  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap,  xxiv, 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Among  the  letters  of  introduction  to  persons  in  Rome  which 
Inglesant  carried  with  him,  was  one  from  Father  St.  Clare  to 
the  Rector  of  the  English  College,  a  Jesuit.  The  Cardinal  had 
invited  him  to  remain  an  inmate  of  his  family,  but  there  were 
several  reasons  which  induced  Inglesant  to  decline  the  offer. 
He  was  desirous  of  observing  the  situation  and  habits  of  the 
great  city  in  a  more  unfettered  way  than  he  would  probably  be 
able  to  do  if  attached  to  the  household  of  a  great  man.  This 
reason  alone  would  probably  have  decided  him,  but  it  was  not 
the  only  one.  In  proportion  as  his  mind  recovered  its  natural 
tone,  and  was  able  to  throw  off  the  depression  which  had  so 
long  troubled  him,  another  source  of  perplexity  had  taken  its 
place.  Most  men,  in  those  days,  with  the  exception  of  very 
determined  Puritans,  approached  Rome  with  feolings  of  venera- 
tion and  awe.  Inglesant's  training  and  tempe-ament  inclined 
him  to  entertain  these  feelings  as  strongly  perhaps  as  any  man 
of  the  day ;  but  since  he  had  been  in  Italy,  his  eyes  and  ears 
had  not  been  closed,  and  it  had  been  impossible  for  him  to 
resist  a  growing  impression,  scarcely  perhaps  amounting  to  con- 
viction, that  the  nearer  he  approached  the  ^Papal  capital  the 
more  wretched  and  worse  governed  did  the  country  appear  on 
every  side.  In  the  muttered  complaints  which  reached  his  ear 
these  evils  were  charged  partly  upon  the  abuses  of  the  Papal 
chair  itself,  but  principally  upon  the  tyranny  and  oppression  of 
the  society  of  the  Jesuits.  Inglesant  made  these  observations 
mostly  in  the  taverns  or  caf^s  in  the  evenings,  when  those  who 
were  present,  perceiving  him  to  be  a  foreigner,  were  more  dis- 
posed to  be  communicative  than  they  otherwise  would  have 
been.  But  the  Cardinal  was  known  to  associate  rather  with 
the  Fathers  of  the  Oratory  than  with  the  Jesuits ;  and  men 
did  not  hesitate  therefore  to  speak  somewhat  freely  on  these 
matters  to  his  familiar  companion.  These  accusations  did  not 
destroy  Inglesant's  faith  in  the  Society,  but  they  made  him 
anxious  to  hear  the  other  side,  and  to  see,  if  possible  from 
within,  the  working  of  this  great  and  powerful  oiganization, 
and  to  understand  the  motives  which  prompted  those  actions 


CHAP.  XXIV.]  A  ROMANCK  261 

which  were  so  much  blamed,  and  which  were  apparently  pro- 
ductive of  such  questionable  fruits.  If  this  were  to  be  done,  it 
must  be  done  at  once.  He  came  to  Rome  recommended  to  the 
Jesuits'  College,  almost  an  accredited  agent.  He  would  be 
received  without  suspicion,  and  would  probably  be  enabled  to 
obtain  an  insight  into  much  of  their  policy.  But  if  at  the  out- 
set he  associated  himself  with  persons  and  interests  hostile,  or 
at  least  indifferent,  to  those  of  the  party  to  which  he  belonged, 
and  which  he  wished  to  understand,  this  opportunity  would 
doubtless  soon  be  lost  to  him.  Acting  upon  these  considera- 
tions, he  parted  from  the  Cardinal,  to  whom  he  confided  his 
motives,  and  made  his  way  to  the  English  College  or  house, 
which  was  situated  in  the  street  leading  to  St.  Peter's  and 
the  Vatican,  and  not  far  from  the  Bridge  and  Castle  of  St. 
Angelo. 

The  College  was  a  large  and  fair  house,  standing  in  several 
courts  and  gardens.  Inglesant  was  received  with  courtesy  by 
the  rector,  who  said  that  he  remembered  seeing  him  in  London, 
and  that  he  had  also  been  at  his  father's  house  in  Wiltshire. 
He  named  to  him  several  Priests  who  had  also  been  there ;  but 
so  many  Papists  had  been  constantly  coming  and  going  at 
Westacre,  dm-ing  the  time  that  Father  St.  Clare  had  resided 
there,  that  Inglesant  could  not  recall  them  to  mind.  The 
rector,  however,  mentioned  one  whom  he  remembered,  the 
gentleman  who  had  given  him  St.  Theresa's  Life.  He  advised 
Inglesant  to  remain  some  days  at  the  College,  as  the  usual  and 
natural  resort  of  all  Englishmen  connected  in  any  way  with  the 
Court  and  Church  of  Rome,  promising  him  pleasant  rooms. 
He  showed  him  his  apartment,  a  small  but  handsome  guest- 
chamber,  looking  upon  a  garden,  with  a  sort  of  oratory  or  closet 
adjoining,  with  an  altar  and  crucifix.  The  beU  rang  for  supper, 
but  the  rector  had  that  meal  laid  for  himself  and  his  guest  in 
his  private  room.  The  students,  and  those  who  took  their 
meals  at  the  common  table,  had  but  one  good  meal  in  the  day, 
that  being  a  most  excellent  one.  Their  supper  consisted  of  a 
glass  of  wine  and  a  manchet  of  bread. 

The  rector  and  Inglesant  had  much  talk  together,  and  after 
the  latter  had  satisfied  his  host,  as  best  he  could,  upon  all  those 
points  —  and  they  were  many — connected  with  the  state  of 
affairs  in  England  upon  which  he  desired  information,  the  rector 
began  in  his  turn  to  give  his  guest  a  description  of  aflairs  in 


262  JOHN  INGLESANT  j  [CHA^.  XXIV. 

Rome,  and  of  those  tMngs  wliicli  lie  should  see,  and  how  best 
to  see  them. 

"  I  will  not  trouble  you  now,"  he  said,  "  with  any  policy  or 
State  affairs.  You  will  no  doubt  wish  to  spend  the  next  few 
days  in  seeing  the  wonderful  sights  of  this  place,  and  in  becom- 
ing familiar  with  its  situation,  so  that  you  may  study  them 
more  closely  afterwards.  A  man  must  indeed  be  ill-endowed 
by  nature  who  does  not  find  in  Rome  delight  in  every  branch 
of  learning  and  of  art.  The  libraries  are  open,  and  the  students 
have  access  to  the  rarest  books ;  in  the  Churches  the  most 
exquisite  voices  are  daily  heard,  the  palaces  are  crowded  with 
pictures  and  with  statues,  ancient  and  modern.  You  have, 
besides,  the  stately  streets  and  noble  buildings  of  every  age, 
the  presence  of  strangers  from  every  part  of  the  worl-i  ?  villas 
covered  with  '  bassi  relievi,'  and  the  enjoyment  of  nature  in 
enchanting  gardens.  To  a  man  who  loves  the  practices  of 
devotion  I  need  not  mention  the  life-long  employment  among 
the  Churches,  relics,  and  processions.  It  is  this  last  that  gives 
the  unique  completeness  of  the  Roman  life  within  itself.  To 
the  abundance  of  its  earthly  wealth,  to  the  delights  of  its  intel- 
lectual gratifications,  is  added  a  feeling  of  unequalled  security 
and  satisfaction,  kept  alive,  in  a  pious  mind,  by  the  incessant 
contemplation  of  the  objects  of  its  reverence.  I  do  not  know 
if  you  are  by  taste  more  of  a  scholar  than  of  a  religious,  but 
both  tastes  are  worthy  of  cultivation,  nor  is  all  spiritual  learning 
necessarily  confined  to  the  last.  There  is  much  that  is  very 
instructive  in  the  lessons  which  the  silent  stones  and  shattered 
monuments  of  the  fallen  cities  over  which  we  walk  teach  us. 
It  has  been  well  observed  that  everything  that  has  been  dug 
out  of  the  -ruins  of  ancient  Rome  has  been  found  mutilated, 
either  by  the  barbarians,  fanaticism,  or  time ;  and  one  of  our 
poets,  Janus  Vitalis,  seeing  all  the  massive  buildings  mouldered 
or  mouldering  away,  and  the  ever-changing  Tiber  only  remaining 
the  same,  composed  this  ingenious  and  pleasing  verse — 

*  Disce  hinc  quid  possit  fortuna ;  immota  labascunt ; 
Et  qu8^  peipetuo  sunt  fluitura,  mauent.' 

You  will  find  that  the  Italian  humoiu*  delights  much  in  such 
thoughts  as  these,  which  make  the  French  and  other  nations 
accuse  us  of  melancholy.  The  Italian  has  a  strong  fancy,  yet 
a  strong  judgment,  and  this  makes  him  delight  in  such  things 


CHAP.  XXIV.]  A  ROMANCK  263 

as  please  the  fancy,  while  at  the  same  time  they  are  in  accord- 
ance with  judgment  and  with  reason.  He  delights  in  music, 
medals,  statues,  and  pictures,  as  things  which  either  divert  his 
melancholy  or  humour  it ;  and  even  the  common  people,  such 
as  shoemakers,  have  formed  curious  collections  of  medals  of 
gold,  silver,  and  brass,  such  as  would  have  become  the  cabinet 
of  a  prince.  Do  you  wish  to  begin  with  the  Churches  or  with 
the  antiquities  V 

Ingtesant  said  he  wished  to  see  the  Churches  first  of  alL 
"  You  will,  no  doubt,"  said  the  rector,  "  find  a  great  satis- 
faction in  such  a  choice.  You  will  be  overcome  with  the 
beauty  and  solemnity  of  these  sacred  places,  and  the  sweetness 
of  the  organs  and  of  the  singing  will  melt  youi-  heart.  At  the 
same  /.me,  I  should  wish  to  point  out  to  you,  to  whom  I  wish 
to  speak  without  the  least  reserve,  that  you  will  no  doubt  see 
some  things  which  will  surprise  you,  nay,  which  may  even 
appear  to  you  to  be,  to  say  the  least,  of  questionable  advantage. 
You  must  understand  once  for  all,  and  constantly  bear  in  mind, 
that  this  city  is  like  none  other,  and  that  many  things  are 
natural  and  proper  here  which  would  be  strange  and  ill-fitted 
elsewhere.  Rome  is  the  visible  symbol  and  representation  of  the 
Christian  truth,  and  we  live  here  in  a  perpetual  masque  or  holy 
interlude  of  the  life  of  the  Savioiu-.  As  in  other  countries  and 
cities,  outward  representations  are  placed  before  the  people  of 
the  awful  facts  and  incidents  on  which  their  salvation  rests,  so 
here  this  is  carried  still  farther,  as  indeed  was  natiu-al  and 
almost  inevitable.  It  was  a  very  small  step  from  the  repre- 
sentation of  the  flagellation  of  Christ,  to  the  very  pillar  on 
which  He  leant.  Indeed,  where  these  representations  were 
enacted,  the  simple  country  people  readily  and  naturally  con- 
ceived them  to  have  taken  jDlace.  Hence,  when  you  are  shown 
the  three  doors  of  Pilate's  house  in  which  Jesus  passed  and 
repassed  to  and  from  judgment,  the  steps  up  which  He  walked, 
the  rock  on  which  He  promised  to  build  His  Church,  the  stone 
on  which  the  cock  stood  and  crowed  when  Peter  denied  Him, 
part  of  His  coat  and  of  His  blood,  and  several  of  the  nails  of 
His  cross,  —  more,  possibly,  than  were  originally  used,  over 
which  the  heretics  have  not  failed  to  make  themselves  very 
merry ; — when  you  see  all  these  things,  I  say,  and  if  you  feel, 
as  I  do  not  say  you  will  feel — but  if  you  feel  any  hesitancy  to 
even  some  repulsion,  as  though  these  miraculous  things  were  or 


264  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [cHAP.  xxrv. 

you  matters  luoie  of  doubt  than  worship,  you  will  not  fail  at 
once  to  see  the  true  nature  and  bearing  of  these  things,  nor  to 
apply  to  them  the  solution  which  your  philosophy  has  doubtless 
given  already  to  many  difficult  questions  of  this  life.  These 
things  are  true  to  each  of  us  according  as  we  see  them ;  they 
are,  in  fact,  but  shadows  and  likenesses  of  the  absolute  truth 
that  reveals  itself  to  men  in  different  ways,  but  always  imper- 
fectly and  as  in  a  glass.  To  the  simple-hearted  peasant  that 
pavement  upon  which  in  his  mind's  eye  he  sees  Jesus  walking, 
is  verily  and  indeed  pressed  by  the  Divine  feet ;  to  him  this 
pillar,  the  sight  of  which  makes  the  stinging  whips  creep  along 
his  flesh,  is  the  pillar  to  which  the  Lord  was  tied.  Om-  people, 
both  peasant  and  noble,  are  of  the  nature  of  children — children 
who  are  naughty  one  moment  and  sincerely  penitent  the  next. 
They  are  now  wildly  dissolute,  the  next  day  prostrate  before 
the  cross;  and  as  such,  much  that  is  true  and  beautiful  in 
tlieir  lives  seems  otherwise  to  the  cold  and  world-taught  heart. 
But  om-  Lord  honoured  the  childlike  heart,  and  will  not  send 
away  our  poor  peasants  when  they  come  to  Him  with  their 
little  offerings,  even  though  they  lay  them  at  the  feet  of  a 
Bambino  doll." 

"  But  do  you  not  find,"  said  Inglesant,  "  that  this  devotion, 
which  is  so  ephemeral,  is  rather  given  to  the  sensible  object  than 
to  the  imseen  Christ  *?" 

"It  may  be  so,"  said  the  rector ;  "  there  is  no  good  but  what 
has  its  alloy;  but  it  is  a  real  devotion,  and  it  reaches  after 
Christ.  Granted  that  it  is  dark ;  no  doubt  in  the  darkness  it 
finds  Him,  though  it  cannot  see  His  form." 

"  Doubtless,"  said  Inglesant,  who  saw  that  the  rector  did 
not  wish  to  dwell  on  this  part  of  the  subject,  "  as  we  say  in  oiu* 
service  in  England,  we  are  the  sheep  of  His  pasture,  and  we  are 
all  branded  with  the  mark  which  He  puts  upon  His  sheep — the 
innate  knowledge  of  God  in  the  soul.  I  remember  hearing  of  a 
man  who  believed  that  he  had  a  guardian  spirit  who  awoke  him 
every  morning  with  the  audible  words,  '  Who  gets  up  first  to 
pray*?'  If  this  man  was  deluded,  it  could  not  have  been  by 
Satan." 

In  the  morning,  when  Inglesant  awoke,  he  saw  from  his 
window,  over  the  city  wall,  the  Monte  Mario,  with  its  pine 
woods,  and  the  windows  of  its  scattered  houses  lighted  by  the 
rising  sun.     The  air  was  soft  and  balmy,  and  he  remained  at 


CHAP.  XXIV.]  A  ROMANCE.  2G5 

the  open  window,  letting  his  mind  gi'ow  certain  of  the  fact  that 
he  was  in  Rome.  In  the  clear  atmosphere  of  the  Papal  city- 
there  was  a  strange  shimmer  of  light  upon  the  distant  hills  and 
on  the  green  tnfts  and  hillocks  of  the  waste  ground  beyond  the 
walls.  The  warm  air  fanned  his  temples,  and  in  the  stillness  of 
the  early  morning  a  delicious  sense  of  a  wonderful  and  unknown 
land,  into  the  mysteries  of  which  he  was  about  to  enter,  filled 
his  mind. 

It  was  indeed  a  strange  world  which  lay  before  him,  and 
resembled  nothing  so  much  as  that  to  which  the  rector  had 
aptly  compared  it  the  night  before — a  sacred  interlude  fuU  of 
wild  and  fantastic  sights  ;  Churches  more  sublime  than  the 
di'eams  of  fancy  painted,  across  whose  marble  pavements  saints 
and  angels  moved  familiiirly  with  men ;  pagan  seimlclires  and 
banqueting  chambers,  where  the  phantoms  flickered  as  in  Tar- 
tarus itself;  vaults  and  Christian  catacombs,  where  the  cry  of 
•  martyrs  mingled  with  the  chanting  of  masses  sung  beneath  the 
§od,  and  where  the  torch-light  flashed  on  passing  forms  of  horror, 
quelled  everywhere  by  the  figiu'e  of  the  Crucified,  that  at  every 
turn  kept  the  place ;  midnight  processions  and  singing,  startling 
the  darkness  and  scaring  the  doers  of  darkness,  mortal  and  im- 
mortal, that  Im-ked  among  the  secret  places,  where  the  crimes 
of  centuries  stood  like  ghastly  corpses  at  every  step ;  and  above 
all  and  through  all  the  life  of  Jesus,  enacted  aiul  re-enacted  year 
after  year  and  day  by  day  continually,  not  in  dumb  show  or 
memorial  only,  but  in  deed  and  fact  before  the  eyes  of  men,  as 
if,  in  that  haunt  of  demons  and  possessed,  in  that  sink  of  past 
and  present  crime,  nothing  but  the  eternal  presence  and  power 
of  Jesus  could  keep  the  fiends  in  check. 

The  rector  took  Inglesant  over  the  College,  and  showed  him 
the  life  and  condition  of  the  inmates  under  its  most  pleasing 
aspect.  As  he  then  saw  it,  it  reminded  him  of  a  poem  he  had 
heard  Mr.  Crashaw  read  at  Little  Gidding,  describing  a  reli- 
gious house  and  condition  of  life,  and  he  quoted  part  of  it  to 
the  rector : — 

"  No  cruel  guard  of  diligent  cares,  that  keep 

Crowned  woes  awake,  as  things  too  wise  for  sleep  : 
But  reverend  discipline,  and  religious  fear, 
And  soft  obedience,  liud  sweet  biding  here  ; 
Silence  and  sacred  rest,  peace  and  pure  joys  " 

When  they  had  seen  the  College  the  rector  said, — 


266  JOHN  INGLES  ANT ;  [chap.  xxiv. 

"  We  will  go  this  morning  to  St.  Peter  s.  It  is  better  that 
you  should  see  it  at  once,  though  the  first  sight  is  nothing. 
Then  at  three  o'clock  we  will  attend  vespers  at  the  Capello  del 
Coro,  where  there  is  fine  music  every  day  in  the  presence  of  a 
cardinal ;  afterwards,  as  Rome  is  very  full,  there  will  be  a  great 
confluence  of  carriages  in  the  Piazza  of  the  Farnese  Palace, 
which  is  a  favomite  resort.  There  I  can  show  you  many  of 
the  great  ones,  whom  it  is  well  you  should  know  by  sight,  and 
hear  something  of,  before  you  are  presented  to  them." 

As  they  passed  out  into  the  street  of  the  city  the  rector 
began  a  disquisition  on  the  discovery  of  antiquities  in  Rome. 
He  advised  Inglesant  to  study  the  cabinets  of  medals  which  he 
would  meet  with  in  the  museums' and  palaces,  as  they  would 
throw  great  light  upon  the  statues  and  other  curiosities. 

"A  man  takes  a  great  deal  more  pleasure,"  he  said,  "in 
surveying  the  ancient  statues  who  compares  them  with  medals 
than  it  is  possible  for  him  to  do  without  some  such  knowledge, 
for  the  two  arts  illustrate  each  other.  The  coins  throw  a  great 
light  upon  many  points  of  ancient  history,  and  enable  us  to 
distinguish  the  kings  and  consuls,  emperors  and  empresses, 
the  deities  and  virtues,  with  their  ensigns  and  trophies,  and 
a  thousand  other  attributes  and  images  not  to  be  learnt  or 
understood  in  any  other  way.  I  have  a  few  coins  myself, 
which  I  shall  be  glad  to  show  you,  and  a  few  gems,  among 
which  is  an  Antiuous  cut  in  a  carnelian  which  I  value  very 
highly.  It  represents  him  in  the  habit  of  a  Mercury,  and  is 
the  finest  Intaglio  I  ever  saw.  I  obtained  it  by  accident  from 
a  peasant,  who  found  it  while  digging  in  his  vineyard." 

Inglesant  was  too  much  occupied  watching  the  passers-by 
in  the  thronged  streets  to  pay  much  attention  to  what  he  said. 
The  crowded  pavements  of  Rome  oflered  to  his  eyes  a  spectacle 
such  as  he  had  never  seen,  and  to  his  imagination  a  fanciful 
pageant  such  as  he  had  never  pictured  even  in  his  dreams. 
The  splendid  equipages  with  their  metal  work  of  massive  silver, 
the  strange  variety  of  the  clerical  costumes,  the  fantastic  dresses 
of  the  attendants  and  papal  soldiers,  the  peasants  and  pilgrims 
from  all  countries,  even  the  most  remote,  crossed  his  vision  in 
an  entangled  maze. 

As  they  crossed  the  bridge  of  St,  Angelo,  the  rector  in- 
formed him  of  the  invaluable  treasures  of  antique  art  which 
were  supposed  to  lie  beneath  the  muddy  waters  of  the  river. 


CHAP.  XXIV.]  A  ROMANCE.  267 

They  passed  beneath  the  castle,  and  a  few  moments  more 
brought  them  to  the  piazza  in  front  of  the  Church. 

The  Colonnade  was  not' finished,  one  side  of  it  being  then 
in  course  of  completion ;  but  in  all  its  brilliant  freshness,  with 
the  innumerable  statues,  white  from  the  sculptor's  hand,  it  had 
an  imposing  and  stately  effect.  The  great  obelisk,  or  Guglia, 
as  the  Italians  called  it,  had  been  raised  to  its  position  some 
seventy  years  before,  but  only  one  of  the  great  fountains  was 
complete.  Crossing  the  square,  which  was  full  of  carriages,  and 
of  priests  and  laymen  on  foot,  the  rector  and  Inglesant  ascended 
the  marble  stairs  which  had  formed  part  of  the  old  Basilica, 
and  up  which  Charlemagne  was  said  to  have  mounted  on  his 
knees,  and  passing  through  the  gigantic  porch,  with  its  enormous 
pillars  and  gilt  roof,  the  rector  pushed  back  the  canvas-lined 
curtain  that  closed  the  doorway,  and  they  entered  the  Church. 

The  masons  were  at  work  completing  the  marble  covering 
of  the  massive  square  pillars  of  the  nave  ;  but  though  the  work 
was  unfinished,  it  was  suflBcient  to  produce  an  eff'ect  of  inexpres- 
sible richness  and  splendour.  The  vast  extent  of  the  pavement, 
prepared  as  for  the  heavenly  host  with  inlaying  of  colours  of 
polished  stone,  agate,  serpentine,  porphyry,  and  chalcedon ;  the 
shining  walls,  veined  with  the  richest  marbles,  and  studded 
with  gems ;  the  roof  of  the  nave,  carved  with  foliage  and  roses 
overlaid  with  gold  ;  the  distant  walls  and  chambers  of  imagery, 
dim  with  incense,  through  which  shone  out,  scarcely  veiled,  the 
statues  and  tombs,  the  paintings  and  crucifixes  and  altars,  with 
their  glimmering  lights ; — all  settled  down,  so  to  speak,  upon 
luglesant's  soul  with  a  perception  of  subdued  splendour,  which 
hushed  the  spirit  into  a  silent  feeling  which  was  partly  rest  and 
partly  awe. 

But  when,  having  traversed  the  length  of  the  nave  without 
uttering  a  word,  he  passed  from  under  the  gilded  roofs,  and  the 
spacious  dome,  lofty  as  a  firmament,  expanded  itself  above  him 
in  the  sky,  covered  with  tracery  of  the  celestial  glories  and 
brilliant  with  mosaic  and  stars  of  gold  ;  when,  opening  on  all 
sides  to  the  wide  transepts,  the  limitless  pavement  stretched 
away  beyond  the  reach  of  sense ;  when,  beneath  this  vast  work 
and  finished  efibrt  of  man's  devotion,  he  saw  the  high  altar, 
brilliant  with  lights,  surmounted  and  enthroned  by  its  panoply 
of  clustering  columns  and  toweling  cross  ;  when,  all  around  him. 
be  was  conscious  of  thi)  hush  and  calmness  of  worship,  and  felt 


268  JOHN  inglesant;  [chap.  xxv. 

in  his  inmost  being  the  sense  of  vastness,  of  splendour,  and  of 
awe  ; — he  may  be  pardoned  if,  kneeling  upon  the  polished  floor, 
he  conceived  for  the  moment  that  this  was  the  house  of  God, 
and  that  the  gate  of  heaven  was  here. 

«  %  *  *  » 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

"It  is  almost  impossible  for  a  man  to  form  in  his  imagina- 
tion," said  the  rector  to  Inglesant,  as  they  left  the  Church, 
"  such  beautiful  and  glorious  scenes  as  are  to  be  met  with  in 
the  Roman  Churches  and  Chapels.  The  profusion  of  the 
ancient  marble  found  within  the  city  itself,  and  the  many  fine 
quarries  in  the  neighbourhood,  have  made  this  result  possible ; 
and  notwithstanding  the  incredible  sums  of  money  which  have 
been  already  laid  out  in  this  w^ay,  the  same  work  is  still  going 
forward  in  other  parts  of  Rome ;  the  last  effort  still  endeavour- 
ing to  outshine  those  that  went  before  it." 

Inglesant  found  this  assertion  to  be  true.  As  he  entered 
Church  after  Church,  during  the  first  few  days  of  his  sojoiu-n 
in  Rome,  he  found  the  same  marble  walls,  the  same  inlaid 
tombs,  the  same  coloured  pavements.  In  the  sombre  autumn 
afternoons  this  splendour  was  toned  down  and  veiled,  till  it  pro- 
duced an  effect  which  was  inexj^ressibly  noble, — a  dim  brilHance, 
a  subdued  and  restrained  glory,  which  accorded  well  with  the 
enervating  perfume  and  the  strains  of  romantic  music  that  stole 
along  the  aisles.  In  these  Chiu'ches,  and  in  the  monasteries 
adjoining,  Inglesant  was  introduced  to  many  priests  and  ecclesi- 
astics, among  whom  he  might  study  most  of  the  varieties  of 
devout  feeling,  and  of  religious  life  in  all  its  forms.  To  many 
of  these  he  was  not  drawn  by  any .  feeling  of  sympathy ;  many 
were  only  priests  and  monks  in  outward  form,  being  in  reality 
men  of  the  world,  men  of  pleasure,  or  antiquarians  and  artists. 
But,  introduced  to  the  society  of  Rome  in  the  first  place  as  a 
"devoto"  he  became  acquainted  natiually  with  many  who 
aspired  to,  and  who  were  considered  to  possess,  exceptional 
piety.  Among  these  he  was  greatly  attracted  by  report  towards 
a  man  who  was  then  beginning  to  attract  attention  in  Rome, 
and  to  exert  that  influence  over  the  highest  and  most  religioua 


CHAP.  XXV.]  A  ROMANCE.  269 

natures,  which,  during  a  period  of  twenty  years,  became  so  over- 
powering as  at  one  time  to  threaten  to  work  a  complete  revo- 
lution in  the  system  and  policy  of  Rome.  This  was  Michael  da 
Molinos,  a  Spanish  priest  who,  coming  to  Home  some  years 
before,  began  to  inculcate  a  method  of  mystical  devotion  which 
he  had  no  doubt  gathered  from  the  followers  of  St.  Theresa, 
who  were  regarded  with  great  veneration  in  Spain,  wdiere  the 
contemplative  devotion  which  they  taught  was  held  in  high 
esteem.  On  his  first  coming  to  Rome  Molinos  refused  all 
ecclesiastical  advancement,  and  declined  to  practise  those 
austerities  which  were  so  much  admired.  He  associated  with 
men  of  the  most  powerfid  minds  and  of  the  most  elevated 
thoughts,  and  being  acknowledged  at  once  to  be  a  man  of 
learning  and  of  good  sense,  his  influence  soon  became  percep- 
tible. To  all  who  came  to  him  for  spiritual  comfort  and  advice 
he  insisted  on  the  importance  of  mental  devotion,  of  daily 
commimion,  and  of  an  inward  application  of  the  soul  to  Jesus 
Christ  and  to  His  death.  So  attractive  were  his  personal 
qualities,  and  so  alluring  his  doctrine,  to  minds  which  had 
grown  weary  of  the  more  formal  ceremonies  and  acts  of  bodily 
penance  and  devotion,  that  thousands  thronged  his  apartments, 
and  "  the  method  of  Molinos  "  became  not  only  a  divine  message 
to  many,  but  even  the  fashionable  religion  of  Rome. 

It  spoke  to  men  of  an  act  of  devotion,  which  it  called  the 
contemplative  state,  in  which  the  will  is  so  united  to  God  and 
overcome  by  that  union  that  it  adores  and  loves  and  resigns 
itself  up  to  Him,  and,  not  exposed  to  the  wavering  of  the  mere 
fancy,  nor  wearied  by  a  succession  of  formal  acts  of  a  dry 
religion,  it  enters  into  the  life  of  God,  into  the  heavenly  places 
of  Jesus  Christ,  with  an  indescribable  and  secret  joy.  It 
taught  that  this  rapture  and  acquiescence  in  the  Divine  Will, 
while  it  is  the  highest  state  and  privilege  of  devotion,  is  within 
the  reach  of  every  man,  being  the  fruit  of  nothing  more  than 
the  silent  and  humble  adoration  of  God  that  arises  out  of  a 
pure  and  quiet  mind ;  and  it  offered  to  every  man  the  prospect 
of  this  commimion — a  prospect  to  which  the  very  novelty  and 
vagueness  gave  a  hitherto  unknown  delight — in  exchange  for 
the  common  methods  of  devotion  which  long  use  and  constant 
repetition  had  caused  to  appear  to  many  but  as  dead  and  life- 
less forms.  Those  who  followed  this  method  generally  laid 
aside  the  use  of  the  rosary,  the  daily  repeating  of  the  breviary, 


270  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [chap.  XXV 

together  with  the  common  devotion  of  the  saints,  and  applied 
themselves  to  preserve  their  minds  in  an  inward  calm  and  quiet, 
that  they  might  in  silence  perform  simple  acts  of  faith,  and  feel 
those  inward  motions  and  directions  which  they  believed  would 
follow  upon  such  acts. 

To  such  a  doctrine  as  this,  taught  by  such  a  man,  it  is  not 
surprising  that  Inglesant  was  soon  attracted,  and  he  visited 
Molinos's  rooms  several  times.  On  one  of  these  occasions  he 
met  in  the  anteroom  a  gentleman  he  had  seen  more  than  once 
before,  but  had  never  spoken  to.  He  was  therefore  somewhat 
surprised  when  he  accosted  him,  and  seemed  desirous  of  some 
private  conference.  Inglesant  knew  that  he  was  the  Count 
Vespiriani,  and  had  heard  him  described  as  of  a  noble  and 
refined  nature,  and  a  hearty  follower  of  MoHnos.  They  left 
the  house  together,  and  driving  to  the  gardens  of  the  Borghese 
Palace,  they  walked  for  some  time. 

The  Count  began  by  expressing  his  pleasure  that  at  so 
early  a  period  of  his  residence  in  Eome  Inglesant  had  formed 
the  acquaintance  of  Mohnos. 

*'  You  are  perhaps,"  he  said,  "  not  aware  of  the  importance 
of  the  movement,  nor  of  the  extent  to  which  some  of  us  are  not 
without  hope  that  it  may  ultimately  reach.  Few  persons  are 
aware  of  the  numbers  already  devoted  to  it,  including  men  of 
every  rank  in  the  Chm-ch  and  among  the  nobility,  and  of  every 
variety  of  opinion  and  of  principle.  It  cannot  be  supposed  that 
all  these  persons  act  thus  under  the  influence  of  any  extraordi- 
nary elevation  of  piety  or  devotion.  To  what  then  can  thek 
conduct  be  ascribed  ?  It  cannot  have  escaped  your  notice,  since 
you  have  been  in  Italy,  that  there  is  much  that  is  rotten  in  the 
state  of  government,  and  to  be  deplored  in  the  condition  of  the 
people.  I  do  not  know  in  what  way  you  may  have  accounted 
for  this  lamentable  condition  of  affairs  in  your  own  mind ;  but 
among  ourselves  (those  among  us  at  any  rate  who  are  men  of 
intelligence  and  of  experience  of  the  hfe  of  other  coimtries,  and 
especially  Protestant  ones)  there  is  but  one  solution — the  share 
that  priests  have  in  the  government,  not  only  in  thePope^s 
territory,  but  in  all  the  other  courts  of  Italy  where  they  have 
the  rule.  This  does  not  so  much  arise  from  any  individual 
errors  or  misdoing  as  from  the  necessai  y  unfitness  of  ecclesiastics 
to  interfere  in  civil  afi'airs.  They  have  not  souls  large  enough 
nor  tender  enough  for  government;  they  are  trained  in  an 


CHAP.  XXV.]  A  ROMANCE.  271 

inflexible  code  of  morals  and  of  conduct  from  which  ihej  cannot 
swerve.  To  this  code  all  human  needs  must  bow.  They  are 
cut  off  from  sympathy  with  their  fellows  on  most  points ;  and 
their  natural  inclinations,  which  cannot  be  wholly  suppressed, 
are  driven  into  unworthy  and  mean  channels ;  and  they  acquire 
a  narrowness  of  spirit  and  a  soiu-ness  of  mind,  together  with  a 
bias  to  one  side  only  of  life,  which  does  not  agree  with  the 
principles  of  human  society.  All  kinds  of  incidental  evils  arise 
from  these  sources,  in  stating  which  I  do  not  wish  to  accuse 
those  ecclesiastics  of  unusual  moral  tiu-pitude.  Among  them 
is  the  fact  that,  having  individually  so  short  and  uncertain  a 
time  for  governing,  they  think  only  of  the  present,  and  of 
serving  their  own  ends,  or  satisfying  their  own  conceptions, 
regardless  of  the  ultimate  happiness  or  misery  which  must  be 
the  consequence  of  what  they  do.  Whatever  advances  the 
present  interests  of  the  Chiurch  or  of  themselves,  for  no  man  is- 
free  altogether  from  selfish  motives, — whatever  enriches  the 
Church  or  their  own  families,  for  no  man  can  help  interesting 
himself  in  those  of  his  own  house, — is  preferred  to  all  wise, 
great,  or  generous  counsels.  You  will  perhaps  wonder  what 
Hie  mystic  spiritual  religion  of  Molinos  has  to  do  with  all  this, 
but  a  moment's  explanation  will,  I  think,  make  it  very  clear  to 
you.  The  hold  which  the  priests  have  upon  the  civil  govern- 
ment is  maintained  solely  by  the  tyranny  which  they  exercise 
over  the  spmtual  life  of  men.  It  is  the  opinion  of  Molinos 
that  this  function  is  misdirected,  and  that  in  the  place  of  a 
tyrant  there  should  appear  a  ^lide.  He  is  about  to  publish  a 
book  called  'La  Guida  Spirituale,'  which  will  appear  with 
several  approbations  before  it, — one  by  the  general  of  the 
Franciscans,  who  is  a  Qualificator  of  the  Inquisition,  and 
another  by  a  member  of  the  Society  to  which  you  are  attached. 
Father  Martin  de  Esparsa,  also  or  e  of  the  Qualificators.  This 
book,  so  authorized  and  recommended,  cannot  fail  not  only  to 
escape  censure,  but  to  exert  a  powerfid  influence,  and  will 
doubtless  be  highly  esteemed.  Now  the  importance  of  Molinos's 
doctrine  lies  in  this,  that  he  presses  the  point  of  frequent  com- 
munion, and  asserts  that  freedom  from  mortal  sin  is  the  only 
necessary  qualification.  At  the  same  time  he  guards  himself 
from  the  charge  of  innovation  by  the  very  title  and  the  whole 
scope  of  his  book,  which  is  to  insist  upon  the  necessity  of  a 
spiritual  director  and  guide.     You  wiU  see  at  once  what  an 


272  JOHN  inglesant;  [chap.  xxv. 

important  step  is  here  gained;  for  the  doctrine  being  once 
admitted  that  mortal  sin  only  is  a  disqualification  for  receiving 
the  sacrament,  and  the  necessity  of  confession  before  communion 
being  not  expressed,  the  obligation  of  coming  always  to  the 
priest,  as  the  minister  of  the  sacrament  of  penance,  before  every 
communion,  cannot  long  be  insisted  upon.  Indeed,  it  will 
become  a  rule  by  which  all  spiritual  persons  who  adhere  to 
Molinos's- method  will  conduct  their  penitents,  that  they  may 
come  to  the  sacrament  when  they  find  themselves  out  of  the 
state  of  mortal  sin,  without  going  at  every  time  to  confession ; 
and  it  is  beginning  to  be  observed  already  in  Rome  that  those 
who,  under  the  influence  of  this  method,  are  becoming  more 
strict  in  their  lives,  more  retired  and  serious  in  their  mental 
devotions,  are  become  less  zealous  in  their  whole  deportment 
as  to  the  exterior  parts  of  religion.  They  are  not  so  assiduous 
at  mass,  nor  in  procuring  masses  for  their  friends,  nor  are  they 
so  frequent  at  confession  or  processions.  I  cannot  tell  you  what 
a  blessing  I  anticipate  for  mankind  should  this  method  be  once 
allowed ;  what  a  freedom,  what  a  force,  what  a  reality  religion 
would  obtain  !  The  time  is  ripe  for  it,  and  the  world  is  pre- 
pared. The  best  men  are  giving  their  adherence;  I  entreat 
you  to  lend  your  aid.  The  Jesuits  are  wavering ;  they  have 
not  yet  decided  whether  the  new  method  will  prevail  or  not. 
The  least  matter  will  turn  the  scale.  You  may  think  that  it 
is  of  little  importance  which  side  you  take,  but  if  so,  you  are 
mistaken.  You  are  not  perhaps  aware  of  the  high  estimation 
in  wdiich  the  reports  and  letters  which  have  preceded  you  have 
caused  you  to  be  held  at  the  Jesuits'  College.  You  are  sup- 
posed to  have  great  influence  with  the  English  Catholics  and 
Protestant  Episcopalians,  and  the  ideaK-pf  promoting  Catholic 
progress  in  England  is  the  dearest  to  the  mind  of  the  Roman 
Ecclesiastic." 

Inglesant  listened  to  the  Count  attentively,  and  did  not 
immediately  reply.     At  last  he  said, — 

"What  you  have  told  me  is  of  the  greatest  interest,  and 
commends  itself  to  my  conscience  more  than  you  know.  As  to 
the  present  state  and  government  of  Italy  I  am  not  competent 
to  speak.  One  of  the  things  which  I  hoped  to  learn  in  Rome 
was  the  answer  to  some  complaints  which  I  have  heard  in  other 
parts  of  Italy.  I  fear  also  that  you  may  be  too  sanguine  as  to 
the  result  of  such  freedom  as  you  desire.     This  age  is  witness 


CHAP.  XXV.]  A  ROMANCE.  273 

of  the  state  to  which  too  much  freedom  has  brought  England, 
my  owu  coiuitry,  a  land  which,  a  few  years  ago,  was  the  happiest 
and  wealthiest  of  all  countries,  now  utterly  ruined  and  laid 
waste.  Tlie  freedom  which  you  desire,  and  the  position  of  the 
clergy  which  you  approve,  is  somewhat  the  same  as  that  which 
existed  in  the  Protestant  Episcopal  Church  of  England;  but 
the  influence  they  possessed  was  not  sufficient  to  resist  the 
innovations  and  wild  excesses  of  the  Sectaries,  The  freedom 
which  I  desire  for  myself  I  am  willing  to  renoimce  when  I  see 
the  e\dl  which  the  possession  of  it  works  among  others  and  in 
the  State.  What  you  attemj^t,  however,  is  an  experiment  in 
which  I  am  not  unwilling  to  be  interested;  and  I  shall  be  very 
curious  to  observe  the  result.  The  main  point  of  your  method, 
the  freedom  of  the  blessed  sacrament,  is  a  taking  jDiece  of  doc- 
trine, for  the  holding  of  wldch  I  have  always  been  attracted  to 
the  Episcopal  Church  of  England.  It  is,  as  you  say,  a  point 
of  immense  importance,  upon  which,  in  fact,  the  whole  system 
of  the  Church  depends.  I  have  been  long  seeking  for  some 
solution  of  the  mysterious  difficulties  of  the  religious  life.  It 
may  be  that  I  shall  find  it  in  your  Society,  which  I  perceive 
already  to  consist  of  men  of  the  highest  and  most  select  natures,- 
with  whom,  come  what  may,  it  is  an  honour  to  be  allied.  You 
may  count  on  my  adherence ;  and  though  I  may  seem  a  half- 
hearted follower,- 1  shall  not  be  found  wanting  when  tlie  time 
of  action  comes.     I  should  wish  to  see  more  of  Molinos." 

"  I  am  not  at  all  smprised,"  said  the  Count,  "  that  you  do 
not  at  once  perceive  the  fidl  force  of  what  I  have  said.  It 
requires  to  be  an  Italian,  and  to  have  grown  to  manhood  in 
Italy,  to  estimate  justly  the  pernicinus  influence  of  the  clergx 
upon  all^ranks  of  society,  I  have  travelled  abroad,  and  when 
I  have  seen  sucKlTcounlFy  as  Holland,  a  land  divided  between 
land  and  sea,  upon  which  the  sun  rarely  shines,  with  a  cold  and 
stagnant  air,  and  liable  to  be  destroyed  by  inundations  :  when 
I  see  this  country  rich  and  floiu-ishing,  full  of  people,  happy  and 
contented,  with  every  mark  of  plenty,  and  none  at  all  of  want ; 
when  I  see  all  this,  and  then  think  of  my  own  beautiful  land,  its 
long  and  happy  summers,  its  rich  and  fruitful  soil,  and  see  it 
ruined  and  depopulated,  its  few  inhabitants  miserable  and  in 
rags,  the  scorn  and  contempt  instead  of  the  envy  of  the  world ; 
when  I  think  of  what  she  was  an  age  or  two  ago,  and  reflect 
upon  the  means  by  which  such  a  fall,  such  a  dispeopling,  and 

T 


274  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap.  XXV. 

such  a  poverty,  has  befallen  a  nation  and  a  climate  like  this, — ■ 
I  dare  not  trust  myself  to  speak  the  words  which  arise  to  my 
lips.  Those  wdth  whom  you  associate  will  doubtless  endeavoiif 
to  prevent  these  melancholy  truths  from  being  perceived  by  you, 
but  they  are  too  evident  to  be  concealed.  Before  long  you  will 
have  painful  experience  of  their  existence." 

"You  say,"  said  Inglesant,  "that  one  or  two  ages  ago  Italy 
was  much  more  prosperous  than  at  i^resent ;  were  not  the  priests 
as  pow:erful  then  as  now  V 

"I  do  not  deny,"  replied  the  Count,  "that  there  have  been 
other  causes  wdiich  have  tended  to  impoverish  the  country,  but 
mider  a  different  government  many  of  these. might  have  been 
averted  or  at  any  rate  mitigated.  When  the  commerce  of  the 
country  was  flourishing,  the  power  of  the  w^ealthy  merchants 
and  the  trading  princes  w^as  equal  or  superior  to  that  of  the 
priests,  especially  in  the  leading  States.  As  their  influence  and 
wealth  declined,  the  authority  of  the  clergy  increased.  A  wiser 
policy  might  have  discovered  other  sources  of  wealth  and  of 
occupation  for  the  people ;  they  only  thought  of  establishing  the 
authority  of  the  Chiurch,  of  adorning  the  altars,  of  filling  the 
Papal  coffers." 

Inglesant  may  have  thought  that  he  perceived  a  w-eak  point 
in  this  explanation,  but  he  made  no  reply,  and  the  Count  sup- 
posed he  was  satisfied. 

A  few  days  afterw\ards  he  had  the  opportimity  of  a  long  and 
private  conversation  with  Molinos. 

The  Spaniard  was  a  man  of  taU  and  graceful  exterior,  with 
a  smile  and  manner  wdiich  were  indescribably  alluring  and 
sweet.  Inglesant  confided  to  him  something  of  his  past  history, 
and  much  of  his  mental  troubles  and  perplexities.  He  spoke 
of  De  Cressy  and  of  the  remorse  w^hich  had  follow^ed  his  rejec- 
tion of  the  life  of  self-denial  which  the  Benedictine  had  offered 
him.     Molinos's  counsel  was  gentle  and  kindly. 

"It  was  said  to  me  long  ago,"  said  Inglesant,  "that  'there 
are  some  men  born  into  the  world  ^\iih  such  happy  dispositions 
that  the  cross  for  a  long  time  seems  very  light,  if  not  altogether 
unfelt.  The  strait  path  nms  side  by  side  with  the  broad  and 
pleasant  way  of  man's  desires ;  so  close  are  they  that  the  two 
cannot  be  discerned  apart.  So  the  man  goes  on,  the  favourite 
seemingly  both  of  God  and  his  fellows ;  but  let  him  not  think 
that  he  shall  always  escape  the  common  doom.     God  is  pre  par- 


CHAP.  XXV. I  A  ROMANCE.  •  275 

ing  some  great  test  for  him,  some  great  temptation,  all  the  more 
teriible  for  being  so  long  delayed.  Let  him  beware  lest  his 
spiritual  natm-e  be  enervated  by  so  much  sunshine,  so  that  when 
the  trial  comes,  he  may  be  unable  to  meet  it.  His  conscience 
is  easier  than  other  men's  :  what  are  sins  to  them  are  not  so  to 
him.  But  the  trial  that  is  prepared  for  him  will  be  no  common 
one :  it  will  be  so  fitted  to.  his  condition  that  he  cannot  palter 
with  it  nor  pass  it  by;  he  must  either  deny  his  God  or  himself.' 
This  was  said  to  me  by  one  who  knew  me  not ;  but  it  was  said 
with  something  of  a  prophetic  instinct,  and  I  see  in  these  words 
some  traces  of  -my  own  fate.  For  a  long  time  it  seemed  to  me 
that  I  could  serve  both  the  world  and  God,  that  I  could  be  a 
com-tier  in  kings'  houses  and  in  the  house  of  God,  that  I  could 
follow  the  earthly  learning  and  at  the  same  time  tlie  learning 
that  is  from  above.  But  suddenly  the  chasm  opened  beneath 
my  feet ;  two  ways  lay  before  me,  and  I  chose  the  broad  and 
easy  path ;  the  cross  was  offered  to  me,  and  I  drew  back  my 
hand ;  the  winnowing  fan  passed  over  the  floor,  and  I  was  swept 
away  with  the  chaff." 

"I  should  prefer  to  say,"  replied  the  Spaniard, — and  as  he 
spoke,  his  expression  was  wonderfully  compassionate  and  urbane, 
— "  I  should  prefer  to  say  that  there  are  soine  men  whom  God 
is  determined  to  win  by  love.  Terrors  and  chastisements  are 
fit  for  others,  but  these  are  the  select  natures,  or,  as  you  have 
yourself  termed  them,  the  courtiers  of  the  household  of  God. 
Believe  me,  God  does  not  lay  traps  for  any,  nor  is  He  mistaken 
in  His  estimate.  If  He  lavishes  favoiu:  upon  any  man,  it  is 
because  he  knows  that  that  man's  natiu-e  will  respond  to  love. 
It  is  the  habit  of  kings  to  assemble  in  their  houses  such  men 
as  will  delight  them  by  their  conversation  and  companionship, 
'amor  ac  delicise  generis  humani,'  whose  memory  is  fresh  and 
sweet  ages  after,  when  they  be  dead.  Something  like  this  it 
seems  to  me  God  is  wont  to  do,  that  He  may  win  these  natures 
for  the  good  of  mankind  and  for  His  own  delight.  It  is  true 
that  such  privilege  calls  for  a  retiu-n ;  but  what  will  ensure  a 
retm-n  sooner  than  the  consideration  of  such  favour  as  this? 
You  say  you  have  been  unworthy  of  such  favoiu*,  and  have  for- 
feited it  for  ever.  You  cannot  have  forfeited  it,  for  it  was  never 
deserved.  It  is  the  kingly  grace  of  God,  bestowed  on  whom 
He  win.  If  I  am  not  mistaken  in  your  case,  God  will  win  you, 
and  He  will  win  you  by  determined  and  uninterrupted  acts  of 


276  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap.  xxv. 

love.  It  may  be  that  in  some  other  plme  God  would  have 
fomid  for  you  other  work  ;  you  have  failed  in  attaining  to  that 
place;  serve  Him  wliere  you  are.  If  you  fall  still  lower,  or 
imagine  that  you  fall  lower,  still  serie  jim  in  the  lowest  room 
'Of  allx^vv  herever  you  may  find  youiself,  in  Courts  or  pleasure- 
houses  or  gardens  of  delight,  still  serve  Him,  and  you  will  bid 
defiance  to  imaginations  and  powers,  of  evil,  that  strive  to  work 
upon  a  sensitive  and  excited  nature,  and  to  m'ge  it  to  despair. 
Many  of  these  thoughts  which  we  look  upon  as  temptations  of 
God  are  but  the  accidents  of  om*  bodily  temperaments.  How 
can  you,  nursed  in  Com"ts,  delicately  reared  and  bred,  trained 
in  pleasiu-e,  your  ear  and  eye  and  sense  habituated  to  music  and 
soft  sounds,  to  colour  and  to  beauty  of  form,  your  brain  developed 
by  intellectual  effort  and  made  sensitive  to  the  slightest  touch 
— how  can  religious  questions  bear  the  same  aspect  to  you  as  to 
a  man  brought  up  in  want  of  the  necessaries  of  life,  hardened  by 
toil  and  exposiure,  imenlightened  by  learning  and  the  arts,  uncon- 
scious of  the  existence  even  of  what  is  agony  or  delight  to  you  1 
Yet  God  is  equally  with  both  of  these ;  in  His  different  waj^s 
He  will  lead  both  of  them,  would  they  but  follow,  through  that 
maze  of  accident  and  casualty  in  which  they  are  involved,  and 
out  of  the  tumult  of  which  coil  they  complain  to  the  Deity  of 
what  is  truly  the  result  of  their  own  temperaments,  ancestry, 
and  the  besetments  of  life/  I  tell  you  this  because  I  have  no 
fear  that  it  will  exalt  you,  but  to  keep  you  from  unduly  depre- 
ciating yourself,  and  from  that  terrible  blasphemy  that  represents 
God  as  laying  snares  for  men  in  the  guise  of  pretended  kindness. 
God  is  with  all,  with  the  coarse  and  dull  as  with  the  refined 
and  pure,  but  He  draws  them  by  different  means, — those  by 
terror,  these  by  love." 

Inglesant  said  little  in  answer  to  these  words,  but  they 
made  a  deep  impression  upon  him.  They  lifted  a  weight  from 
his  spirits,  and  enabled  him  henceforward  to  take  some  of  the 
old  pleasure  in  the  light  of  heaven  and  the  occurrences  of  life. 
He  saw  much  of  Molinos,  and  had  long  conferences  with  him 
upon  the  solution  of  the  greatest  of  all  problems,  that  of 
granting  .religious  freedom,  and  at  the  same  time  maintaining 
religious  truth.  Molinos  thought  that  his  system  solved  this 
problem,  and  although  Inglesant  was  not  altogether  cpuvinced 
of  this,  yet  he  associated  himself  heartily,  if  not  wholly,  with 
the  Quietists,  as  Molinos's  followers  were  called,  insomuch  that 


CHAP.  XXV.]  A  ROMANCE.  277 

he  received  some  friendly  cautious  from  the  Jesuit  College  not 
to  commit  himself  too  far. 

%  *  *  *  * 

It  must  not  be  supposed,  however,  that  he  was  altogether 
absorbed  in  such  thoughts  or  such  piursuits.  To  him,  as  to  all 
the  other  inhabitants  of  Eome,  each  in  his  own  degree  and 
station,  the  twofold  aspect  of  existence  in  the  strange  Papal 
city  claimed  his  alternate  regard,  and  divided  his  life  and  his 
intellect.  The  society  of  Rome,  at  one  moment  devout,  the  next 
philosophic,  the  next  antiquarian,  artistic,  pleasiu-e-seeking,  im- 
parted to  all  its  members  some  tincture  of  its  Protean  character. 
The  existence  of  all  was  coloured  by  the  many-sided  prism 
through  which  the  light  of  every  day's  experience  was  seen. 
Inglesant's  acquaintance  with  the  Cardinal  introduced  him  at 
once  to  all  the  different  coteries,  and  procured  him  the  advan- 
tage of  a  companion  who  exerted  a  strong  and  cultivated  mind  to 
exliibit  each  subject  in  its  completest  and  most  fascinating  aspect. 
Accompanied  by  the  Cardinal,  and  with  one  or  other  of  the 
literati  of  Rome,  each  in  his  tiu-n  a  master  of  the  peculiar  study 
to  which  the  day  was  devoted,  Inglesant  wandered  day  after 
day  through  all  the  wonderful  city,  through  the  palaces,  ruins, 
museums,  and  galleries.  He  stood  among  the  throng  of  statues, 
that  strange  maze  of  antique  Ufe,  which  some  enchanter's  wand 
seems  suddenly  to  have  frozen  into  marble  in  the  midst  of  its 
intricate  dance,  yet  so  frozen  as  to  retain,  by  some  mysterious 
art,  the  warm  and  breathing  life.  He  saw  the  men  of  the  old 
biu-ied  centuries,  of  the  magic  and  romantic  existence  when  the 
world  was  young.  The  beautifid  gods  with  their  white  wands; 
the  grave  senators  and  stately  kings ;  the  fauns  and  satyrs  that 
dwelt  in  the  untrodden  woods  ;  the  pastoral  flute-players,  whose 
airs  yet  linger  within  the  peasant's  reeds  ;  the  slaves  and  crafts- 
men of  old  Rome,  with  all  their  postures,  dress,  and  bearing,  as 
they  walked  those  inlaid  pavements,  buried  deep  beneath  the 
soil,  whose  mosaic  figm-es  every  now  and  then  are  opened  to  the 
faded  life  of  to-day.  Nor  less  entrancing  were  those  quaint 
fancies  upon  the  classic  tombs,  which  show^ed  in  what  manner 
the  old  pagan  looked  out  into  the  spacious  ether  and  confronted 
death, — a  child  playing  with  a  comic  masque,  bacchanals,  and 
wreaths  of  flowers,  hunting  parties,  and  battles,  images  of  life, 
of  feasting  and  desire;  and  finally,  the  inverted  torch,  th^ 
fleeting  seasons  ended,  and  the  actor's  part  laid  down, 


278  JOHN  INGLES  ANT ;  [CHAP.  XXV. 

Still  existing  as  a  background  to  this  phantom  life  was  the 
stage  on  which  it  had  walked ;  the  ruined  splendour  of  Rome, 
in  its  setting  of  blue  sky  and  green  foliage,  of  ivy  and  creeping 
plants,  of  laurels  and  ilex,  enfolded  in  a  soft  ethereal  radiance 
that  created  everywhere  a  garden  of  romance. 

"Nothing  delights  and  entertains  me  so  much  in  this 
country,"  said  Inglesant  one  day  to  a  gentleman  with  whom  he 
was  walking,  "as  the  contrasts  which  present  themselves  on 
every  hand,  the  peasant's  hut  built  in  the  ruins  of  a  palace,  the 
most  exquisite  carving  supporting  its  tottering  roof,  cattle 
drinking  out  of  an  Emperor's  tomb,  a  theatre  built  in  a  mauso- 
leum, and  pantomime  airs  and  the  '  plaudite '  heard  amid  the 
awful  silence  of  the  grave  ;  here  a  Christ,  ghastly,  naked,  on  a 
cross  ;  there  a  charming  god,  a  tender  harmony  of  form  and  life ; 
triiunphal  arches  sunk  in  the  ruins  not  of  their  own  only,  but 
of  successive  ages,  monuments  far  more  of  decay  and  death  than 
of  glory  or  fame ;  Corinthian  columns  canopied  with  briers,  ivy, 
and  wild  vine,  the  delicate  acanthus  wi'eaths  stained  by  noisome 
weeds.  The  thoughts  that  arise  from  the  sight  of  these  con- 
trasts are  pleasing  though  melancholy,  such  ideas,  sentiments, 
and  feelings  as  arise  in  the  mind  and  in  the  heart  at  the  foot  of 
antique  columns,  before  triumphal  arches,  in  the  depths  of 
ruined  tombs,  and  on  mossy  banks  of  fountains ;  but  there  are 
other  contrasts  which  bring  no  such  soothing  thoughts  with 
them ;  nothing  but  what  may  almost  be  called  despair ;  pro- 
fusion of  magnificence  and  wealth  side  by  side  with  the  utmost 
wretchedness ;  Christ's  altar  blazing  with  jewels  and  marble, 
misery  indescribable  around;  luxury,  and  enjoyment,  and  fine 
clothes,  almost  hustled  by  rags,  and  sores,  and  filth.  Amid  the 
lesson  of  past  ages,  written  on  every  ruined  column  and  shattered 
wall,  what  a  distance  still  exists  between  the  poor  and  the  rich  ! 
Should  the  poor  man  wish  to  overpass  it,  he  is  driven  back  at 
once  into  his  original  wretchedness,  or  condemned  more  merci- 
fully to  death,  while  every  ruined  column  and  obelisk  cries  aloud, 
(*  Let  everything  that  creeps  console  itself,  for  everything  that 
is  elevated  falls.'") 
"  We  Romans^"  said  the  gentleman,  "  preserve  om*  ruins  as 
beggars  keep  open  their  sores.  They  are  preserved-  not  always 
from  taste  ;  nor  from  a  respect  of  antiquity,  but  sometimes  from 
mere  avarice,  for  they  attract  from  every  corner  of  the  world 
that  crowd  of  strangers  whose  curiosity  has  long  furnifehed  a 


CHAP.  XXV.]  A  ROMANCE.  279 

maintenance  to  three-fourths  of  Italy.  But  you  were  speaking 
of  the  charming  gods  of  the  ancients.  We  are  not  inferior  to 
them.  Have  you  seen  the  Apollo  of  Bernini  pursuing  Daphne, 
in  the  Borghese  Palace  1  His  hair  waves  in  the  wind,  you  hear 
the  entreaties  of  the  god." 

"  Yes,  I  have  seen  it,"  said  Inglesant ;  "it  is  another  of 
those  wonderful  contrasts  with  which  Rome  abounds.  We  are 
Catholic  and  Pagan  at  the  same  time." 

"  It  is  true,"  said  the  other ;  "  nevertheless,  in  the  centre 
of  the  blood-stained  Coliseo  stands  a  crucifix.  The  Galilean 
has  triumphed." 

Inglesant  stopped.  They  were  standing  before  the  Apollo 
in  the  Belvedere  gardens.  Inglesant  took  from  beneath  his 
vest  a  crucifix  in  ivory,  exquisitely  carved,  and  held  it  beside 
the  statue  of  the  god.  The  one  the  noblest  product  of  buoyant 
life,  the  proudest  perfection  of  harmonious  form,  purified  from 
all  the  dross  of  humanity,  the  head  worthy  of  the  god  of  day 
and  of  the  lyre,  of  healing  and  of  help,  who  bore  in  his  day  the 
selfsame  name  that  the  other  bore,  "the  great  physician;"  the 
other,  worn  and  emaciated,  helpless,  dying,  apparently  without 
power,  foigotten  by  the  world.  "  Has  the  Galilean  triumphed  ? 
Do  you  prefer  the  Christ  V  he  said. 

The  gentleman  smiled.  "  The  benign  god,"  he  said,  "  has 
doubtless  many  votaries,  even  now." 

It  is  probable  that  the  life  of  Rome  was  working  its  eff'ect 
upon  Inglesant  himself  Under  its  influence,  and  that  of  the 
Cardinal,  his  tone  of  thought  became  considerably  modified.  In 
a  strange  and  unexpected  way,  in  the  midst  of  so  much  religion, 
his  attention  was  diverted  from  the  religious  side  of  life,  and  his 
views  of  what  was  philosophically  important  underwent  con- 
siderable change.  He  read  Lucretius  less,  and  Terence  and 
Aristophanes  more.  Human  life,  as  he  saw  it  existing  around 
him,  became  more  interesting  to  him  than  theories  and  opinions. 
Life  in  all  its  forms,  the  Cardinal  assm-ed  him,  was  the  only 
study  worthy  of  man ;  and  though  Inglesant  saw  that  such  a 
general  assertion  only  encouraged  the  study  of  human  thought, 
yet  it  seemed  to  him  that  it  directed  him  to  a  truth  which  he 
had  hitherto  perhaps  overlooked,  and  taught  him  to  despise  and 
condemn  nothing  in  the  common  path  of  men  in  which  he 
walked.  If  this  were  true,  the  more  carefully  he  studied  this 
common  life,  and  the  more  narrowly  he  watched  it,  the  more 


280  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap.  xxv. 

worthy  it  would  appear  of  regard ;  the  dull  and  narrow  streets, 
the  crowded  dwellings,  the  base  and  vulgar  life,  the  poverty 
and  distress  of  the  poorer  classes,  would  assume  an  interest 
unknown  to  him  before. 

"  This  life  and  interest,"  the  Cardinal  would  say,  "  finds  its 
best  exponent  in  the.  old  pantomime  and  burlesque  music  of 
Italy.  The  real,  everyday,  commonplace,  human  life,  which 
originates  absolutely  among  the  people  themselves,  speaks  in 
their  own  music  and  street  airs ;  but  when  these  are  touched 
by  a  master's  hand,  it  becomes  revealed  to  us  in  its  essence, 
refined  and  idealized,  with  all  its  human  features,  which,  from 
their  very  familiarity,  escape  our  recognition  as  we  walk  the 
streets.  In  the  peculiarity  of  this  music,  its  graceful  delicacy 
and  lively  frolic  and  grotesqucness,  I  think  I  find  the  most 
perfect  presentment,  to  the  ear  and  heart,  of  human  life,  especi- 
ally as  the  slightest  variation  of  time  or  setting  reveals  in  the 
most  lively  of  these  airs  depths  of  pathos  and  melodious  sorrow, 
completing  thus  the  analogy  of  life,  beneath  the  gayest  phases 
of  which  lie  unnoticed  the  saddest  realities." 

"I  have  often  felt,"  said  Inglesant,  "that  old  dance  music 
has  an  inexpressible  pathos ;  as  I  listen  to  it  I  seem  to  be 
present  at  long-past  festivities,  whose  very  haunts  are  swept 
away  and  forgotten;  at  evenings  in  the  distant  past,  looked 
forward  to  as  all  important,  upon  whose  short  and  fleeting 
.hours  the  hopes  and  enjoyments  of  a  lifetime  were  staked,  now 
lost  in  an  undistinguished  oblivion  and  dust  of  death.  The 
young  and  the  beautiful  who  danced  to  these  quaint  measures, 
in  a  year  or  two  had  passed  away,  and  other  forms  equally 
graceful  took  their  place.  Fancies  and  figm-es  that  live  in 
sound,  and  pass  before  the  eyes  only  when  evoked  by  such 
melodies,  float  down  the  shadowy  way  and  pass  into  the  future, 
where  other  gay  and  brilliant  hom's  await  the  young,  to  be 
followed  as  heretofore  by  pale  and  disappointed  hopes  and  sad 
realities,  and  the  grave." 

"  What  do  you  mean,"  said  the  Cardinal,  "  by  figures  that 
live  in  sound  1 " 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  Inglesant,  "  that  the  explanation 
of  the  power  of  music  upon  the  mind  is,  that  many  things  are 
elements  which  are  not  reckoned  so,  and  that  sound  is  one  of 
them.  As  the  air  and  fire  are  said  to  be  jDCopled  by  fiiiry  in- 
habitants, as  the  spiritual  man  lives  in  the  element  of  faith,  sc 


CHAP.  XXV.]  '      .  A  HOMANCE.  281 

I  believe  that  there  are  creatures  which  live  in  sound.  Every 
lovely  fancy,  every  moment  of  delight,  every  thought  and  thrill 
of  pleasure  which  music  calls  forth,  or  which,  already  existing, 
is  beautified  and  hallowed  by  music,  does  not  die.  Such  as  these 
become  fairy  existences,  spiritual  creatures,  shadowy  but  real, 
and  of  an  inexpressibly  delicate  grace  and  beauty,  which  live 
in  melody,  and  float  and  throng  before  the  sense  whenever  the 
harmony  that  gave  and  maintains  their  life  exists  again  in  sound. 
They  are  children  of  the  earth,  and  yet  above  it ;  they  recall 
the  human  needs  and  hopes  from  which  they  sprang.  They 
have  shadowy  sex  and  rank,  and  diversity  of  bearing,  as  of  the 
different  actors'  parts  that  fill  the  stage  of  life.  Poverty  and 
want  are  there,  but,  as  in  an  allegory  or  morality,  purified  and 
released  from  suff'ering.  The  pleasures  and  delights  of  past 
ages  thus  live  again  in  sound,  the  sorrows  and  disappointments 
of  other  days  and  of  other  men  mingle  with  our  own,  and  soften 
and  subdue  our  hearts.  Apollo  and  Orpheus  tamed  the  savage 
beasts ;  music  will  soften  our  rugged  nature,  and  kindle  in  us 
a  love  of  om-  kind  and  a  tolerance  of  the  petty  failings  and  the 
shortcomings  of  men." 

It  was  not  only  music  that  fostered  and  encouraged  in 
Kome  an  easy  tolerant  philosophy.  No  society  could  be  more 
adapted  than  that  of  the  Papal  city  to  such  an  end.  A  people 
whose  physical  wants  were  few  and  easily  supiDlied  (a  single 
meal  in  such  a  climate,  and  that  easily  procured,  sufficing  for 
the  day) ;  a  city  full  of  strangers,  festivals,  and  shows ;  a  con- 
science absolutely  at  rest ;  a  community  entirely  set  apart  from 
politics,  absolutely  at  one  with  its  government  by  habit,  by  in- 
terest, and  by  religion ; — constituted  a  unique  state  and  mental 
atmosphere,  in  which  such  philosophy  naturally  flourished. 
The  early  hours  of  the  day  were  spent  in  such  business  as  was 
necessary  for  all  classes  to  engage  in,  and  were  followed  by  the 
dinner  of  fruit,  vegetables,  fish,  and  a  little  meat.  From  dinner 
all  went  to  sleep,  which  lasted  till  six  o'clock  in  the  evening. 
Then  came  an  hour's  trifling  over  the  toilette,  all  business  was 
at  an  end,  and  all  the  shops  were  shut.  Till  three  o'clock  in 
the  morning  the  horn's  were  devoted  to  enjoyment.  Men, 
women,  and  children  repaired  to  the  public  walks,  to  the  Corso 
and  squares,  to  conversation  in  coteries,  to  assemblies  in  arcaded 
and  lighted  gardens,  to  collations  in  taverns.  Even  the  gravest 
and  most  serious  gave  themselves  up  to  relaxation  and  amuse- 


282  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [CHAP.  XXT. 

ment  till  the  next  day.  Every  Evening  was  a  festival ;  every 
variety  of  character  and  conversation  enlivened  these  delicious 
hours,  these  soft  and  starry  nights. 

Nothing  pleased  Inglesant's  fancy  so  mtich,  or  soothed  his 
senses  so  completely,  as  this  second  dawn  of  the  day  and  rising 
to  pleasure  in  the  cool  evening.  Soothed  and  calmed  by  sleep, 
the  irritated  nerves  were  lulled  into  that  delicious  sense  for 
which  we  have  no  name,  but  which  we  compare  to  flowing 
water,  and  to  the  moistening  of  a  parched  and  dusty  drought. 
All  thoughts  of  trouble  and  of  business  were  banished  by  the 
intervening  hours  of  forgetfulness,  from  which  the  mind,  half- 
aroused  and  fresh  from  dreamland,  awoke  to  find  itself  in  a 
world  as  strange  and  fantastic  as  the  land  of  sleep  which  it  had 
left;  a  laud  bathed  in  sunset  light,  overarched  by  rainbows, 
saluted  by  cool  zephyrs,  soothed  by  soft  strains  of  music,  de- 
lighted and  amused  by  gay  festivals,  peopled  by  varied  crowds 
of  happy  folk,  many-coloured  in  dress,  in  green  walks  spark- 
ling with  fairy  lamps,  and  seated  at  al  fresco  suppers,  before 
cosy  taverns  famous  for  delicious  wines,  where  the  gossip  of 
Europe,  upon  which  Rome  looked  out  as  from  a  Belvedere, 
intrigue,  and  the  promotions  of  the  morning,  were  discussed. 

luglesant  had  taken  lodgings  in  an  antique  villa  on  the 
Aventine,  surrounded  by  an  uncultivated  garden  and  by  vine- 
yards. The  house  was  partly  deserted  and  partly  occupied  by 
a  family  of  priests,  and  he  slept  here  when  he  was  not  at  the 
Cardinal's  palace,  or  with  other  of  his  friends.  The  place  was 
quiet  and  remote  from  the  throng  and  noise  of  Rome ;  in  the 
gardens  were  fountains  in  the  cool  shade ;  frescoes  and  paint- 
ings had  beep  left  on  the  walls  and  in  the  rooms  by  the  owner 
of  the  villa ;  the  tinkling  of  convent  bells  sounded  from  the 
slopes  of  the  hills  through  the  laurels  and  ilex  and  across  the 
vines ;  every  now  and  then  the  chanting  of  the  priests  might 
be  heard  from  a  small  Chapel  at  the  back  of  the  house. 

Inglesaut  awoke  from  his  raid-day  sleep  one  evening  to  the 
splash  of  the  fountain,  and  the  scent  of  the  fresh-turned  earth 
in  the  vineyard,  and  found  his  servant  arranging  his  room  for 
his  toilette.  He  was  to  sup  that  evening  at  the  Cardinal's  with 
some  of  the  Fathers  of  the  Oratory,  and  he  dressed,  as  was 
usual  with  him  even  in  his  most  distracted  moods,  with  scrupu- 
lous care.  A  sedan  was  waiting  for-  him,  aid  he  set  out  fof 
the  Cardinal's  palace. 


CHAP.  x^V.]  A  ROMANCK  283 

It  was  a  brilliant  evening;  upon  the  hill -sides  the  dark 
trees  stood  out  against  the  golden  sky,  the  domes  and  pinnacles 
of  the  Churches  shone  in  the  evening  light.  In  the  quiet  lanes, 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Aventine,  the  perfume  of  odorifer- 
ous trees  was  wafted  over  lofty  garden  walls  ;  quiet  figures 
flitted  to  and  fro,  a  distant  hum  of  noisy  streets  scarcely  reached 
the  ear,  mingled  with  the  never-ceasing  bells.  That  morning, 
before  he  went  to  sleep,  Inglesant  had  been  reading  "  The 
Birds"  of  Aristophanes,  with  a  voluminous  commentary  by 
some  old  scholar,  who  had  brought  together  a  mass  of  various 
learning  upon  the  subject  of  grotesque  apologue,  fable,  and  the 
fanciful  representation  of  the  facts  and  follies  of  human  life 
under  the  characters  of  animals  and  of  inanimate  objects.  A 
vast  number  of  examples  of  curious  pantomime  and  other  stage 
characters  were  given,  and  the  idea  preserved  throughout  that, 
by  such  impersonations,  the  voices  of  man's  existence  were  able 
to  speak  with  clearness  and  pathos,  and  were  more  sure  of  being 
listened  to  than  when  they  assumed  the  guise  of  a  teacher  or 
divine.  Beneath  a  grotesque  and  unexpected  form  they  conceal 
a  gravity  more  sober  than  seriousness  itself,  as  irony  is  more 
sincere  than  the  solemnity  which  it  parodies.  Truth  drops 
her  stilted  gait,  and  becomes  natural  and  real,  in  the  midst  of 
ludicrous  and  familiar  events.  The  broad  types  of  life's  players 
into  which  the  race  is  divided,  especially  the  meanest, — thieves, 
beggars,  outcasts, — with  whom  life  is  a  reality  stripped  of  out- 
ward show,  will  carry  a  moral  and  a  teaching  more  aptly  than 
the  privileged  and  afiected  classes.  Mixed  with  these  are 
animals  and  familiar  objects  of  household  life,  to  which  every- 
day use  has  given  a  character  of  their  own.  These,  not  in  the 
literal  repulsiveness  or  dulness  of  their  monotonous  existence, 
but  abstracted,  as  the  types  or  emblems  of  the  ideas  associated 
with  each  one — not  a  literal  beggar,  in  his  dirt  and  loathsome- 
ness, but  poverty,  freedom,  helplessness,  and  amusing  knavery, 
personified  in  the  part  of  a  beggar — not  a  mere  article  of  house- 
hold use  in  its  inanimate  stupidity,  but  every  idea  and  associa- 
tion connected  with  the  use  of  such  articles  by  generations  of 
men  and  women  ; — these  and  such  as  these,  enlivened  by  the 
sparkle  of  genius,  set  forth  in  gay  and  exquisite  music,  and  by 
brilliant  repartee  and  witty  dialogue,  certainly  cannot  be  far 
behind  the  very  foremost  delineation  of  human  life. 

Educated  in  the  Court  of  King  Charles  to  admire  Shake* 


284  JOHN  inglesant;  [chap.  xxv. 

speare  and  the  Elizabethan  stage,  Inglesant  was  better  able  to 
understand  these  things  than  the  Italians  were,  suggestive  as 
the  Italian  life  itself  was  of  such  reflections.  The  taste  for 
music  and  scenery  had  driven  dialogue  and  character  from  the 
stage.  Magnificent  operas,  performed  by  exquisite  singers,  and 
accompanied  by  mechanical  effects  of  stupendous  extent,  were 
almost  the  only  scenic  performances  fashionable  in  Italy ;  but 
this  was  of  less  consequence  where  every  street  was  a  stage, 
and  every  festival  an  elaborate  play.  The  Italians  were  panto- 
mimic and  dramatic  in  the  highest  degree  without  perceiving  it 
themselves.  The  man  who  deliglits  in  regarding  this  life  as  a 
stage  cannot  attach  an  overwhelming  importance  to  any  inci- 
dent ;  he  observes  life  as  a  spectator,  and  does  not  engage  in  it 
as  an  actor ;  but  the  Italian  was  too  impetuous  to  do  this — he 
took  too  violent  an  interest  in  the  events  themselves. 

The  narrow  streets  througli  which  Inglesant's  chair  passed 
terminated  at  last  in  a  wide  square.^  It  was  full  of  confused 
figures,  presenting  to  the  eye  a  dazzling  movement  of  form  and 
colour,  of  which  last,  owing  to  the  evening  light,  the  prevailing 
tint  was  blue.  A  brilliant  belt  of  sunset  radiance,  like  molten 
gold  along  the  distant  horizon,  threw  up  the  white  houses  into 
strong  relief.  Dark  cypress  trees  rose  against  the  glare  of  the 
yellow  sky,  tinged  with  blue  from  the  fathomless  azure  above. 
The  white  spray  of  fountains  flashed  high  over  the  heads  of 
the  people  in  the  four  corners  of  the  square,  and  long  lance-like 
gleams  of  light  shot  from  behind  the  cypresses  and  the  white 
houses,  refracting  a  thousand  colours  in  the  flashing  Avater.  A 
murmur  of  gay  talk  filled  the  air,  and  a  constant  change  of 
varied  form  perplexed  the  eye. 

Inglesant  alighted  from  his  chair,  and,  directing  his  servants 
to  proceed  at  once  to  the  Cardinal's,  crossed  the  square  on  foot. 
Following  so  closely  on  his  previous  dreamy  thoughts,  he  was 
intensely  interested  and  touched  by  this  living  pantomime. 
Human  life  had  never  before  seemed  to  him  so  worthy  of 
regard,  whether  looked  at  as  a  whole,  inspiring  noble  and 
serious  reflections,  or  viewed  in  detail,  when  each  separate 
atom  appears  pitiful  and  often  ludicrous.  The  infinite  distance 
between  these  two  poles,  between  the  aspirations  and  the  ex- 
hortations of  conscience,  which  have  to  do  with  humanity  as 
a  whole,  and  the  actual  circumstances  and  capacities  of  the  in- 
dividual, with  which  satirists  and  humourists  have  ever  made 


CHAP.  XXV.]  A  ROMANCK  285 

free  to  jest, — this  contrast,  running  through  every  individual 
life  as  well  as  through  the  mass  of  existence,  seemed  to  him  to 
be  the  true  field  of  humour,  and  the  real  science  of  those 
"  Humanities "  which  the  schools  pedantically  professed  to 
teach. 

Nothing  moved  in  the  motley  crowd  before  him  but  what 
illustrated  this  science, — the  monk,  the  lover,  the  soldier,  the 
improvisatore,  the  matron,  the  young  girl ;  here  the  childish 
hand  brandishing  its  toy,  there  the  artisan,  and  the  shop-girl, 
and  the  maid-servant,  seeking  such  enjoyment  as  their  confined 
life  aff'orded  ;  the  young  boyish  companions  with  interlaced 
arms,  the  benignant  priest,  every  now  and  then  the  stately 
carriage  slowly  passing  by  to  its  place  on  the  Corso,  or  to  the 
palace  or  garden  to  which  its  inmates  were  bound. 

Wandering  amid  this  brilliant  phantasia  of  life,  Inglesant's 
heart  smote  him  for  the  luxurious  sense  of  pleasure  which  he 
found  himself  taking  in  the  present  movement  and  aspect  of 
things.  Doubtless  this  human  philosophy,  if  we  may  so  call 
it,  into  which  he  was  drifting,  has  a  tendency,  at  least,  very 
different  from  much  of  the  teaching  wiiich  is  the  same  in  every 
school  of  religious  thought.  Love  of  mankind  is  inculcated  as 
a  sense  of  duty  by  every  such  school ;  but  by  this  is  certainly 
not  intended  love  of  and  acquiescence  in  mankind  as  it  is.  This 
study  of  human  life,  however,  this  love  of  human  existence,  is 
unconnected  with  any  desire  for  the  improvement  either  of 
the  individual  or  of  the  race.  It  is  man  as  he  is,  not  man  as 
he  might  be,  or  as  he  should  be,  which  is  a  delightful  subject 
of  contemplation  to  this  tolerant  philosophy  which  human 
frailty  finds  so  attractive.  Man's  failings,  his  self-inflicted 
miseries,  his  humours,  the  effect  of  his  very  crimes  and  vices, 
if  not  even  those  vices  themselves,  form  a  chief  part  in  the 
changing  drama  upon  which  the  student's  eyes  are  so  eagerly 
set,  and  without  these  it  would  lose  its  interest  and  attraction, 
A  world  of  perfect  beings  would  be  to  such  a  man  of  all  things 
the  most  stale  and  unprofitable.  Humour  and  pathos,  the 
grotesque  contrast  between  a  man's  aspirations  and  his  actual 
condition,  his  dreams  and  his  mean  realities,  would  be  altogether 
wanting  in  such  a  world.  Indignation,  sorrow,  satire,  doubt, 
and  restlessness,  allegory,  the  very  soul  and  vital  salt  of  life, 
would  be  wanting  in  such  a  world.  But  if  a  man  does  not 
desire  a  perfect  world,  what  part  can  he  have  in  the  Christian 


286  •        JOHN  INGLES  ANT  ;  [chap.  XXV. 

warfare  1  It  is  true  that  an  intimate  study  of  a  world  of  sin 
and  of  misfortune  throws  up  the  sinless  character  of  the  Saviouf 
into  strong  relief ;  but  the  student  accepts  this  Saviour's  char- 
acter and  mission  as  part  of  the  phenomena  of  existence,  not 
as  an  irreconcilable  crusade  and  battle-cry  against  the  powers 
of  the  world  on  every  hand.  The  study  of  life  is  indeed  equally 
possible  to  both  schools  ;  but  the  pleased  acquiescence  in  life 
as  it  is,  with  all  its  follies  and  fantastic  pleasures,  is  surely 
incompatible  with  following  the  footsteps  of  the  Divine  Ascetic 
who  trod  the  wine-press  of  the  wrath  of  God.  With  all  their 
errors,  they  who  rejected  the  world  and  all  its  allurements,  and 
taught  the  narrow  life  of  painful  self-denial,  must  be  more 
nearly  right  than  this. 

Nevertheless,  even  before  this  last  thought  was  completely 
formed  in  his  mind,  the  sight  of  the  moving  people,  and  of  the 
streets  of  the  wonderful  city  opening  out  on  every  side,  full  of 
palaces  and  glittering  shops  and  stalls,  and  crowded  with  life 
and  gaiety,  turned  his  halting  choice  back  again  in  the  opposite 
direction,  and  he  thought  something  like  this  : — 
/—-  "  How  useless  and  even  pitiful  is  the  continued  complaint 
(  of  moralists  and  divines,  to  whom  none  lend  an  ear,  whilst  they 
endeavour,  age  after  age,  to  check  youth  and  pleasure,  and  turn 
the  current  of  life  and  nature  backward  on  its  course.  For  how- 
many  ages  in  this  old  Rome,  as  in  every  other  city,  since  Terence 
gossiped  of  the  city  life,  has  this  frail  faulty  humanity  for  a  few 
hours  sunned  itself  on  warm  afternoons  in  sheltered  walks  and 
streets,  and  comforted  itself  into  life  and  pleasure,  amid  all  its 
cares  and  toils  and  sins.  Out  of  this  shifting  phantasmagoria 
comes  the  sound  of  music,  always  pathetic  and  sometimes  gay  : 
amid  the  roofs  and  belfries  peers  the  foliage  of  the  public  walks, 
the  stage  upon  which,  in  every  city,  life  may  be  studied  and 
taken  to  heart ;  not  far  from  these  walks  is,  in  every  city,  the 
mimic  stage,  the  glass  in  which,  in  every  age  and  climate, 
human  life  has  seen  itself  reflected,  and  has  delighted,  beyond 
all  other  pleasures,  in  pitying  its  own  sorrows,  in  learning  its 
own  story,  in  watching  its  own  fantastic  developments,  in  fore- 
shadowing its  own  fate,  in  smiling  sadly  for  an  hour  over  the 
still  more  fleeting  representation  of  its  own  fleeting  joys.  For 
ever,  without  any  change,  the  stream  flows  on,  spite  of  moralist 
and  divine,  the  same  as  when  Phaedria  and  Thais  loved  each 
other  in  old  Kome.     We  look  back  on  these  countless  ages  of 


CHAP.  XXV.]  A  ROMANCK  287 

city  life,  cooped  in  narrow  streets  and  alleys  and  paved  walks, 
breathing  itself  in  fouutained  courts  and  shaded  arcades,  where 
youth  and  manhood  and  old  age  have  sought  their  daily  suste- 
nance not  only  of  bread  but  of  happiness,  and  have  with  difl5culty 
and  toil  enough  found  the  one  and  caught  fleeting  glimpses  of 
the  other,  between  the  dark  thunder  clouds,  and  under  the 
weird,  wintry  sky  of  many  a  life.  Within  such  a  little  space 
how  much  life  is  crowded,  what  high  hopes,  how  much  pain ! 
From  those  high  windows  behind  the  flower -pots  young  girls 
have  looked  out  upon  life,  which  their  instincts  told  them  was 
made  for  pleasure,  but .  which  year  after  year  convinced  them 
was,  somehow  or  other,  given  over  to  pain.  How  can  we  read 
■this  endless  story  of  humanity  with  any  thought  of  blame  1 
How  can  we  watch  this  restless  quivering  human  life,  this 
ceaseless  efi'ort  of  a  finite  creature  to  attain  to  those  things 
which  are  agreeable  to  its  created  nature,  alike  in  all  countries, 
under  all  climates  and  skies,  and  whatever  change  of  garb  or 
semblance  the  long  course  of  years  may  bring,  with  any  other 
thought  than  that  of  tolerance  and  pity — tolerance  of  every  sort 
of  city  existence,  pity  for  every  kind  of  toil  and  evil,  year  after 
year  repeated,  in  every  one  of  earth's  cities,  full  of  human 
life  and  handicraft,  and  thought  and  love  and  pleasure,  as 
in  the  streets  of  that  old  Jerusalem  over  which  the  Saviour 
weptr' 

***** 

The  conversation  that  evening  at  the  Cardinal's  villa  turned 
upon  the  antiquities  of  Kome.  The  chief  delight  of  the  Fathers 
of  the  Oratory  was  in  music,  but  the  Cardinal  preferred  conver- 
sation, especially  upon  Pagan  literature  and  art.  He  was  an 
enthusiast  upon  every  subject  connected  with  the  Greeks, — art, 
poetry,  philosophy,  religion ;  upon  all  these  he  founded  theories 
and  deductions  which  showed  not  only  an  intimate  acquaintance 
with  Greek  literature,  but  also  a  deep  familiarity  with  the 
human  heart.  A  lively  imagination  and  eloquent  and  polished 
utterance  enabled  him  to  extract  from  the  baldest  and  most 
obscure  myths  and  fragments  of  antiquity  much  that  was 
fascinating,  and,  being  founded  on  a  true  insight  into  human 
nature,  convincing  also. 

Inglesant  especially  sympathized  with  and  understood  the 
tone  of  thought  and  the  line  of  reasoning  with  which  the  Car- 
dinal regarded  Pagan  antiquity ;  and  this  appreciation  pleased 


288  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap.  xxy. 

the  Cardinal^  and  caused  him  to  address  much  of  his  conversa- 
tion directly  to  him. 

The  villa  was  full  of  objects  by  which  thought  and  conver- 
sation were  attracted  to  such  channels.  The  garden  was 
entered  by  a  portico  or  door-case  adorned  with  ancient  statues, 
the  vol  to  or  roof  of  which  was  painted  with  classic  subjects, 
and  the  lofty  doors  themselves  were  covered  with  similar  ones 
in  relief.  The  walls  of  the  house,  towards  the  garden,  were 
cased  with  bas-reliefs, — "  antique  incrustations  of  history  "  the 
Cardinal  called  them, — representing  the  Rape  of  Europa,  of 
Leda,  and  other  similar  scenes.  These  antique  stones  and 
carvings  were  fitted  into  the  walls  between  the  rich  pilastefs 
and  cornicing  which  adorned  the  front  of  the  villa,  and  the 
whole  was  crossed  with  tendrils  of  citron  and  other  flowering 
shrubs,  trained  with  the  utmost  art  and  nicety,  so  as  to  soften 
and  ornament  without  concealing  the  sculpture.  The  gardens 
were  traversed  by  high  hedges  of  myrtle,  lemon,  orange,  and 
juniper,  interspersed  with  mulberry  trees  and  oleanders,  and 
were  planted  with  wide  beds  of  brilliant  flowers,  according  to 
the  season,  now  full  of  anemones,  ranunculuses,  and  crocuses. 
The  whole  was  formed  upon  terraces,  fringed  with  balustrades 
of  marble,  over  which  creeping  plants  were  trained  with  the 
utmost  skill,  only  leaving  sufficient  stone-work  visible  to  relieve 
the  foliage.  The  walks  were  full  of  statues  and  pieces  of  carving 
in  relief.  The  rooms  were  ornamented  in  the  same  taste,  and 
the  chimney  of  the  one  in  which  the  supper  was  laid  was  en- 
riched with  sculpture  of  wonderful  grace  and  delicacy. 

One  of  the  Fathers  of  the  Oratory  asked  Inglesant  whether 
he  had  seen  the  Venus  of  the  Medicean  palace,  and  what  he 
thought  of  it  compared  with  the  Venus  of  the  Farnese ;  and 
when  he  had  replied,  the  other  turned  to  the  Cardinal  and 
inquired  whether,  in  his  opinion,  the  Greeks  had  any  higher 
meaning  or  thought  in  these  beautiful  delineations  of  human 
form  than  mere  admiration  and  pleasure. 

"  The  higher  minds  among  them  assuredly,"  said  the 
/  Cardinal ;  "  feut  in  another  and  more  important  sense  every 
one  of  them,  even  the  most  unlettered  peasant  who  gazed  upon 
the  work,  and  the  most  worldly  artist  buried  in  the  mere  out- 
ward conceptions  of  his  art,  were  consciously  or  unconsciously 
following,  and  even  worshipping,  a  divinity  and  a  truth  than 
which  nothing  can  be  higher  or  more  universal     For  the  truth 


CHAP.  XXV. J  A  ROMANCE.  289 

was  too  powerful  for  them,  and  so  universal  that  tliey  could  not 
escape.     Human  life,  in  all  the  phases  of  its  beauty  and  its 
deformity,  is  so  instinct  with  the  divine  nature,  tliat,  in  merely 
following  its  variety,  you  are  learning  the  highest  lessons,  and) 
teaching  them  to  others." 

"What  may  you  understand  by  being  instinct  with  the 
divine  nature  1"  said  the  Priest,  not  unnaturally. 

"  I  mean  that  general  consensus  and  aggregate  of  truth  in 
which  human  nature  and  all  that  is  related  to  it  is  contained. 
That  divine  idea,  indeed,  in  which  all  the  facts  of  human  life 
and  experience  are  drawn  togethei',  and  exalted  to  their  utmost 
perfection  and  refinement,  and  are  seen  and  felt  to  form  a  whole 
of  surpassing  beauty  and  nobleness,  in  which  the  divine  image 
and  plastic  power  in  man  is  clearly  discerned  and  intellectually 
received  and  appropriated." 

The  Priest  did  not  seem  altogether  to  understand  this,  and 
remained  silent. 

"  But,"  said  Inglesant,  "  much  of  this  pursuit  of  the  beauti- 
ful must  have  been  associated,  in  tlie  ideas  of  the  majority  of 
the  people,  with  thoughts  and  actions  the  most  unlovely  and 
undesirable  according  to  the  intellectual  reason,  however  de- 
lightful to  the  senses." 

"  Even  in  these  orgies,"  replied  the  Cardinal,  "  in  the  most 
profligate  and  wild  excesses  of  license,  I  see  traces  of  this  all- 
pervading  truth  ;  for  the  renouncing  of  all  bound  and  limit  is 
in  itself  a  truth,  when  any  particular  good,  though  only  sensual, 
is  freed  and  perfected.  This  is,  no  doubt,  what  the  higher 
natures  saw,  and  it  was  this  that  reconciled  them  to  the  license 
of  the  people  and  of  the  unilluminated.  In  all  these  aberrations 
they  saw  ever  fresh  varieties  and  forms  of  that  truth  which, 
when  it  was  intellectually  conceived,  it  was  their  greatest 
enjoyment  to  contemplate,  and  which,  no  doubt,  formed  the 
material  of  the  instructions  which  the  initiated  into  the  mysteries 
received.  ( It  is  impossible  that  this  could  be  otherwise,  for  there  - 
can  be  no  philosophy  if  there  be  no  human  life  from  which  to 
derive  it.}  The  intellectual  existence  and  discourses  of  Socrates 
cannot  be  understood,  except  when  viewed  in  connection  with 
the  sensual  and  common  existence  and  carnal  wisdom  of  Aristo- 
phanes, any  more  than  the  death  of  the  one  can  be  uiulerstood 
without  we  also  understand  the  popular  thought  and  feeling 
delineated  to  us  by  the  other      And  why  should  we  be  so  un- 

u 


290  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [cHAP.  XXV. 

grateful  as  to  turn  round  on  this  'beast  witliin  the  man,'  if  you 
so  choose  to  call  it, — th3  human  body  and  human  delight  to 
which  we  owe  not  only  our  own  existence  and  all  that  makes 
life  desirable,  but  also  that  very  loftiness  and  refinement  of 
soul,  that  elevated  and  sublime  philosophy,  which  could  not 
exist  but  for  the  contrast  and  antithesis  which  popular  life 
presents  1  Surely  it  is  more  philosophical  to  take  in  the  whole 
of  life,  in  every  possible  form,  than  to  shut  yourself  up  in  one 
doctrine,  which,  while  you  fondly  dream  you  have  created  it, 
and  that  it  is  capable  of  self-existence,  is  dependent  for  its  very 
being  on  that  human  life  from  which  you  have  fled,  and  which 
you  despise.  This  is  the  whole  secret  of  the  pagan  doctrine, 
and  the  key  to  those  profound  views  of  life  which  were  evolved 
in  their  religion.  This  is  the  worship  of  Priapus,  of  human 
life,  in  which  nothing  comes  amiss  or  is  to  be  staggered  at, 
however  voluptuous  or  sensual,  for  all  things  are  but  varied 
manifestations  of  life ;  of  life,  ruddy,  delicious,  full  of  fruits, 
basking  in  sunshine  and  plenty,  dyed  with  the  juice  of  grapes ; 
of  life  in  valleys  cooled  by  snowy  peaks,  amid  vineyards  and 
shady  fountains,  among  which,  however,  'Saepe  Faunorum  voces 
exauditoe,  ssepe  visse  formse  Deorum.'" 

"  This,  Signore  Inglesant,"  said  the  Priest,  passing  the  wine 
across  the  table,  with  a  smile,  "is  somewhat  even  beyond  the 
teaching  of  your  friends  of  the  Society  of  the  Gesu  ;  and  would 
make  their  doctrine  even,  excellently  as  it  already  suits  that 
purpose,  still  more  propitious  towards  the  frailty  of  men." 

Ingles-ant  filled  his  glass,  and  drank  it  off  befjore  he  replied. 
The  wine  was  of  the  finest  growth  of  the  delicious  Alban  vine- 
yards ;  and  as  the  nectar  coursed  through  his  veins,  a  luxurious 
sense  of  ac'quiescence  stole  over  him.  The  warm  air,  laden  with 
perfume  from  the  shaded  windows,  lulled  his  sense ;  a  stray 
sunbeam  lighted  the  piles  of  fruit  and  the  deeply  embossed  gold 
of  the  service  on  the  table  before  him,  and  the  mellow  paintings 
and  decorated  ceiling  of  the  room.  As  he  slowly  drank  his 
wine  the  memory  of  Serenus  de  Cressy,  and  of  his  doctrine  of 
human  life,  rose  before  his  mind,  and  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
the  deep-coloured  wire  before  him,  as  though  he  saw  there,  as 
in  a  magic  goblet,  tho  opposing  powers  that  divide  the  world. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  renounced  his  right  to  join  in  tlie 
conflict,  and  that  he  must  remain  as  ever  a  mere  spectator  of 
the  result ;  nevertheless  he  said, — 


CHAP,  xiiv.]  A  ROllANCE.  291 

/"  Your  doctrine  is  delightful  to  the  philosopher  and  to  the 
man  of  culture,  who  has  his  nature  under  the  curb,  and  his 
glance  firmly  fixed  upon  the  goal ;  but  to  the  vulgar  it  is  death  ; 
and  indeed  it  was  death  until  the  voice  of  another  God  was 
heard,  and  the  form  of  another  God  was  seen,  not  in  vineyards 
and  rosy  bowers,  but  in  deserts  and  stony  places,  in  dens  and 
caves  of  the  earth,  and  in  prisons  and  on  crosses  of  wood." 

"  It  is  treason  to  the  idea  of  cultured  life,"  said  the  Cardinal, 
"to  evoke  such  gloomy  images.  My  theory  is  at  least  free 
from  such  faults  of  taste." 

"Do  not  fear  me,"  said  Inglesant ;  "I  have  no  right  to 
preach  such  a  lofty  religion.  An  asceticism  I  never  practised 
it  would  ill  become  me  to  advocate." 

"  You  spoke  of  the  death  of  Socrates,"  said  the  Priest ; 
"does  this  event  fall  within  the  all-embracing  tolerance  of  your 
theory  ?" 

"The  death  of  Socrates,"  said  the  Cardinal,  "appears  to 
have  been  necessary  to  preserve  the  framework  of  ordinary 
everyday  society  from  falling  to  pieces.  At  any  rate  men  of 
good  judgment  in  that  day  thought  so,  and  they  must  have 
known  best.  You  must  remember  that  it  was  Socrates  that 
was  put  to  death,  not  Plato,  and  we  must  not  judge  by  what 
the  latter  has  left  us  of  what  the  former  taught.  The  doctrine 
of  Socrates  was  purely  negative,  and  undermined  the  principle 
of  belief  not  only  in  the  Gods  but  in  everything  else.  His 
dialectic  was  excellent  and  noble,  his  purpose  pure  and  exalted, 
the  clearing  of  men's  minds  of  false  impressions  ;  but  to  the 
common  fabric  of  society  his  method  was  destruction.  So  he 
was  put  to  death,  unjustly  of  course,  and  contrary  to  the  highest 
law,  but  according  to  the  lower  law  of  expediency,  justly ;  for 
society  must  preserve  itself  even  at  the  expense  of  its  noblest 
thinkers.  But,"  added  the  Cardinal  with  a  smile,  "we  have 
only  to  look  a  little  way  for  a  parallel.  It  is  not,  however,  a 
perfect  one ;  for  while  the  Athenians  condemned  Socrates  to  a 
death  painless  and  dignified,  the  moderns  have  burnt  Servetus, 
whose  doctrine  contained  nothing  dangerous  to  society,  but 
turned  on  a  mere  point  of  the  schools,  at  the  stake." 

"Why  do  they  not  burn  you,  CardinaU"  said  one  of  the 
Oratorians,  who  had  not  yet  spoken,  a  very  intimate  friend  of 
the  master  of  the  house. 

"They  do  not  know  whom  to  begin  with  in  Rome,"  ha 


292  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap.  XXV. 

replied ;  "  if  tl.  ey  once  commenced  to  burn,  the  holocaust  would 
be  enormous  before  the  sacrifice  was  complete." 

"  I  would  they  would  biu-n  Donna  Olympia,"  said  the  same 
Priest ;  "  is  it  true  that  she  has  returned  V 

"Have  patience,"  said  the  Cardinal;  "from  what  I  hear 
you  will  not  have  long  to  wait." 

"I  am  glad  you  beheve  in  piu-gatory,"  said  the  Priest  who 
had  spoken  first.  "  I  did  not  know  that  your  Eminence  was  so 
orthodox." 

"  You  mistake.  I  do  not  look  so  far.  I  am  satisfied  with 
the  pm-gatory  of  this  life.  I  merely  meant  that  I  fear  we  shall 
not  long  have  his  Holiness  among  us." 

"The  moderns  have  biu-nt  others  besides  Servetus,"  said  one 
of  the  guests — "  Vaninus,  for  instance." 

"I  did  not  instance  Vaninus,"  said  the  Cardinal,  "because 
his  punishment  was  more  justifiable,  and  nearer  to  that  of 
Socrates.  Vaninus  taught  atheism,  which  is  dangerous  to 
society,  and  he  courted  his  death.  I  suppose,  Mr.  Inglesant, 
that  your  bishops  would  burn  Mr.  Hobbes  if  they  dared." 

"  I  know  little  of  the  Anglican  bishops.  Eminence,"  replied 
Inglesant;  "but  from  that  little  I  should  imagiue  that  it  is 
not  impossible." 

"What  does  Mr.  Hobbes  teach  f'  said  one  of  the  party. 

The  Cardinal  looked  at  Inglesant,  who  shook  his  head. 

"  What  he  teaches  would  require  more  skill  than  I  possess 
to  explain.  What  they  would  say  that  they  burnt  him  for 
would  be  for  teaching  atheism  and  the  universality  of  matter. 
I  fancy  that  it  is  at  least  doubtful  whether  even  Vaninus  meant 
to  deny  the  existence  of  God.  I  have  been  told  that  he  was 
merely  an  enthusiastic  naturalist,  who  could  see  nothing  but 
nature,  which  was  his  god.  But  as  for  Mr.  Hobbes's  opinions, 
he  seems  to  me  to  have  proclaimed  a  Miird  authority  in  addition 
to  the  two  which  already  claimed  the  allegiance  of  the  world. 
We  had  first  the  authority  of  a  Church,  then  of  a  book,  now 
Mr.  Hobbes  asserts  the  authority  of  reason ;  and  the  supporters 
of  the  book,  even  more  fiercely  than  those  of  the  Church,  raise 
a  clamour  against  him.  His  doctrines  are  very  insidiously  and 
cautiously  exi^ressed,  and  it  proves  the  acuteness  of  the  Anglican 
divines  that  they  have  detected,  under  the  plausible  reasoning  of 
Mr.  Hobbes,  the  basis  of  a  logical  argument  which  would,  if  'in- 
confuted,  destroy  the  authority  of  Holy  Scriptuie." 


(?HAP.  XXVI.]       •  A  ROMANCE.  293 

The  Cardinal  looked  at  Inglesant  curiously,  as  though  un- 
certain whether  he  was  speaking  in  good  faith  or  not,  hut  the 
subject  did  not  seem  to  possess  great  interest  to  the  company  at 
table,  and  the  conversation  took  another  tm-n. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

Some  few  days  after  the  conversation  at  the  Cardinal's  villa, 
Inglesant  received  his  first  commission  as  an  agent  of  the 
Society  of  the  Gesu.     He  was  invited  to  sup  with  the  Superior 

of  the  English  Jesuits,  Father  ,  at  the  college  called  St. 

Tommaso  degli  Inglesi.     After  the  meal,  over  which  nothing 
was  spared  to  render  it  delicious,  and  during  the  covu-se  of 
which  the  Superior  exerted  himself  to  please,  the  latter  said, — 
"  I  am  instructed  to  offer  you  a  commission,  which,  if  I 
mistake  not,  will  both  prove  very  interesting  to  you,  and  will 
also  be  of  advantage  to   yoiu-  interests.      Yon  are  probably 
acquainted  with  the  story  of  the  old  Duke  of  Umbria.     You 
have  heard  that,  wearied  with  age,  and  tked  of  the  world,  he 
resigned  the  dukedom  to  his  son,  his  only  child,  the  object  of 
all  his  hopes  and  the  fruit  of  careful  training  and  instruction. 
This  son,  far  from  realizing  the  brilliant  hopes  of  his  father, 
indulged  in  every  kind  of  riot  and  debauchery,  and  finally  died 
young,  worn  out  before  his  time.     The  old  Duke,  broken-hearted 
by  this  blow,  has  virtually  made  over  the  succession  to  the 
Holy  Father,  and  lives  now,  alone  and  silent,  in  his  magnificent 
palace,  caring  for  no  worldly  thing,  and  devoting  all  his  thoughts 
to  religion  and  to  his  approaching  end.     He  is  unhappy  in  the 
prospect  of  his  dissolution,  and  the  only  persons  who  are  ad- 
mitted to  his  presence  are  those  who  promise  him  any  comfort 
in  the  anticipation,  or  any  clearness  in  the  vision,  of  the  future 
life.     Quacks  and  impostors  of  every  kind,  priests  and  monks 
and  fanatics,  are  admitted  freely,  and  trouble  this  miserable  old 
man,  azid  drive  him  into  intolerable  despair.     To  give  to  this 
old  man,  whose  life  of  probity,  of  honom-,  of  devotion  to  his 
people,  of  conscientious  rectitude,  is  thus  miserably  rewarded — 
to  give  some  comfort  to  this  miserable  victim  of  a  jealousy 
which  the  superstitioUiS  miscall  that  of  heaven,  is  a  mission 
which  the  ethereal  chivalry  of  the  soul  will  eagerly  embrace. 


294  JOHN  INGLES  ant;  [chap.  xxvi. 

It  is  one,  I  may  say  without  flattery,  for  whicli  I  hold  you 
singularly  fitted.  A  passionate  religious  fervour,  such  as  yours, 
combined  in  the  most  singular  manner  with  the  freest  specula- 
tive opinions,  and  commended  by  a  courteous  grace,  will  at  once 
soothe  and  strengthen  this  old  man's  shattered  intellect,  dis- 
tracted and  tormented  and  rapidly  sinking  into  imbecility  and 
dotage." 

Father paused  and  filled  his  glass ;  then  passing  the 

wine  to  Inglesant,  he  continued,  half  carelessly, — 

"  I  said  that  the  Duke  had  virtually  made  over  the  succes- 
sion of  his  State  to  the  Papal  See ;  but  this  has  not  been  for- 
mally ratified,  and  there  has  arisen  some  hesitation  and  difficulty 
respecting  it.  Some  of  the  unsuitable  advisers  to  whom  the 
Duke  in  his  mental  weakness  has  unfortunately  lent  an  ear, 
have  endeavoured  to  persuade  him  that  the  interests  of  his 
people  will  be  imperilled  by  their  country  being  placed  under 
the  mild  and  beneficent  rule  of  the  Holy  Father.  We  hear 
something  of  a  Lutheran,  who,  by  some  unexplained  means,  has 
obtained  considerable  influence  with  this  unhappy  old  man ;  and 
we  are  informed  that  there  is  great  danger  of  the  Duke's  hesi- 
tating so  long  before  he  completes  the  act  of  succession,  thai 
liis  death  may  occur  before  it  is  complete.  You  will  of  course 
exert  the  influence  which  I  hope  and  expect  that  you  will  soon 
gain  at  the  ducal  Court,  to  hasten  this  consummation,  so  desir 
able  for  the  interests  of  the  people,  of  the  Papacy,  and  of  the 
Duke  himself" 

Inglesant  had  listened  to  this  communication  with  great  in- 
terest. The  prospect  which  the  earlier  part  of  it  had  opened 
before  him  was  in  many  respects  an  attractive  one,  and  the  flatter- 
ing words  of  the  Superior  were  uttered  in  a  tone  of  sincerity  which 
made  them  very  pleasant  to  hear.  The  description  of  the  Duke's 
condition  off"ered  to  him  opportunities  of  mental  study  of  absorb- 
ing interest,  and  the  characters  of  those  by  whom  he  was  sur- 
rounded would  no  doubt  present  combinations  and  varieties  of 
singular  and  unusual  curiosity.  It  must  not  be  denied,  more- 
over, that  there  entered  into  his  estimate  of  the  proposal  made 
to  him  somewhat  of  the  prospect  of  luxurious  and  coiu-tly  fife — 
of  that  soft  clothing,  both  of  body  and  spirit,  which  they  who 
live  in  kings'  houses  wear.  It  is  ditticult  indeed  for  one  who 
has  been  long  accustomed  to  refined  and  dainty  living,  where 
every  sense  is  trained  and  strengthened  by  the  fruition  it  enjoys, 


CHAP.  XXVI.]  A  ROMANCE.  295 

to  regard  the  fatiire  altogether  with  indifference  in  lespect  to 
these  things.  The  pala3e  of  the  Duke  was  notorious  through- 
out all  Italy  for  the  treasures  of  art  which  it  contained,  though 
its  master  in  his  old  age  was  become  indifferent  to  such  delights. 
But  though  these  thoughts  passed  through  his  mind  as  the 
Superior  was  speaking,  luglesant  was  too  well  versed  in  the 
ways  of  Courts  and  Ecclesiastics  not  to  know  that  there  was 
something  more  to  come,  and  to  attend  carefully  for  its  develop- 
ment. The  latter  part  of  the  Superior's  speech  produced  some- 
thing even  of  a  jDleasurable  amusement,  as  the  skilfully  executed 
tactics  of  an  opponent  are  pleasing  to  a  good  player  either  at 
cards  or  chess.  The  part  which  he  was  now  expected  to  play, 
the  side  which  he  was  about  to  espouse,  taken  in  connection 
with  the  diflSci-dties  and  impressions  which  had  perplexed  him 
since  he  had  arrived  in  Italy,  and  which  had  not  been  removed 
by  what  he  had  seen  in  Rome  itself,  corresponded  so  exactly 
with  the  scheme  which,  to  his  excited  imagination,  was  being 
spiritually  developed  for  his  destruction — a  morbid  idea,  possibly, 
which  the  lofty  beneficence  of  Molinos's  doctrine  had  only  par- 
tially removed — that  its  appearance  and  recognition  actually 
provoked  a  smile.  But  the  smile,  which  the  Superior  noticed 
and  entirely  misunderstood,  was  succeeded  by  uneasiness  and 
depression.  There  was,  however,  little  hesitation  and  no  ap- 
parent delay  in  Inglesant's  manner  of  acceptance.  The  old 
habit  of  implicit  obedience  was  far  from  obliterated  or  even 
weakened,  and  though  Father  St.  Clare  was  not  present  the 
supreme  motive  of  his  influence  was  not  unfelt.  He  had  chosen 
his  part  when  in  Paris  he  had  turned  his  back  upon  De  Cressy, 
and  accepted  the  Jesuit's  offer  of  the  mission  to  Rome.  He  had 
lived  in  Rome,  had  been  received  and  countenanced  and  enter- 
tained as  one  who  had  accepted  the  service  of  those  who  had 
so  courteously  and  hospitably  treated  him,  and  it  was  far  too  late 
now,  when  the  first  return  was  expected  of  him,  to  draw  back  or 
to  refuse.  To  obey  was  not  only  a  recognized  duty,  it  was  an 
instinct  which  not  only  long  training  but  experience  even  served 
to  strengthen.  He  assm^ed  the  Superior  that  he  was  perfectly 
ready  to  set  out.  He  assured  himself  indeed  that  it  was  not 
necessary  to  corns  to  a  decision  at  that  moment,  and  that  he 
should  be  much  better  able  to  decide  upon  his  course  of  cond  uct 
when  he  had  seen  the  Duke  himself,  and  received  more  fuU 
insti'uctions  from  Rome. 


296  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [cHAP.  XXVI. 

The  Superior  informed  Inglesant  that  he  would  be  expected 
to  visit  Uinbria  as  a  gentleman  of  station,  and  offered  to  pro- 
vide the  necessary  means.  Inglesant  contented  himself  with 
declining  this  offer  for  the  present.  Since  his  arrival  at  Rome 
he  had  received  considerable  sums  of  money  from  England,  the 
residt  of  Lady  Cardiff's  bounty,  and  the  Cardinal's  purse  was 
open  to  him  in  several  indirect  ways.  He  provided  himself 
with  the  necessary  number  of  servants,  horses,  and  other  con- 
veniences, and  some  time,  as  would  appear,  after  Easter,  he 
arrived  at  Umbria. 

On  his  journey,  as  he  rode  along  in  the  wonderful  clear 
morning  light,  in  his  "  osteria "  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  and 
when  he  resumed  his  journey  in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  his 
thoughts  had  been  very  busy.  He  remembered  his  conversation 
with  the  Count  Vespiriani,  and  was  unable  to  reconcile  his  pre- 
sent mission  with  the  pledge  he  had  given  to  the  Count.  He 
was  more  than  once  inclined  to  turn  back  and  refuse  to  imder- 
take  the  duty  demanded  of  him.  Thoughts  of  Lam-etta,  and 
of  .the  strange  fate  that  had  separated  him  from  her,  also 
occupied  his  mind  ;  '  and  with  these  conflicting  emotions  still 
unreconciled,  he  saw  at  last  the  white  facade  of  the  palace 
towering  above  the  orange-groves,  and  the  houses  and  pinnacles 
of  the  city. 

The  ducal  palace  at  Umbria  is  a  magnificent  example  of 
the  Renaissance  style.  It  is  impossible  to  dwell  in  or  near  this 
wonderful  house  without  the  life  becoming  affected,  and  even 
diverted  from  its  previous  course,  by  its  imperious  influence. 
The  cold  and  mysterious  power  of  the  classic  architecture  is 
wedded  to  the  rich  and  libertine  fancy  of  the  Renaissance, 
treading  unrestrained  and  unabashed  the  maze  of  natm-e  and  of 
phantasy,  and  covering  the  classic  purity  of  outKne  with  its 
exquisite  tracery  of  fairy  life.  Over  door  and  window  and 
pilaster  throng  and  cling  the  arabesque  carvings  of  foliage  and 
fruit,  of  graceful  figm^es  in  fantastic  forms  and  positions, — all  of 
infinite  variety ;  all  full  of  originality,  of  life,  of  motion,  and  of 
character ;  all  of  exquisite  beauty  both  of  design  and  workman- 
ship. The  effect  of  the  whole  is  lightness  and  joy,  while  the 
eye  is  charmed  and  the  sense  filled  with  a  luxmious  satisfaction 
at  the  abounding  wealth  of  beauty  and  lavish  imagination. 
But  together  with  this  delight  to  eye  and  sense  there  is  present 
to  the  mind  a  feeling,  not  altogether  painless,  of  oppressive 


CHAP.  XXVI.]  A  ROMANCE.  297 

luxury,  and  of  the  mating  of  incongruous  forms,  arousing  as  it 
were  an  uneasj^  conscience,  and  affecting  the  soul  somewhat  as 
the  overpowering  perfume  of  tropical  vegetation  affects  the 
senses.  To  dwell  in  this  palace  was  to  breathe  an  enchanted 
air  ;  and  as  the  wandering  prince  of  story  loses  his  valour  and 
strength  in  the  magic  castles  into  which  he  strays,  so  here  the 
indweller,  whose  intellect  was  mastered  by  the  genius  of  the 
architectm-e,  found  his  simplicity  impaired,  his  taste  becoming 
more  sensuous  and  less  severely  chaste,  and  his  senses  lulled 
and  charmed,  by  the  insidious  and  enervating  spirit  that  per- 
vaded the  place. 

At  his  first  presentation  Inglesant  found  the  Duke  seated 
in  a  small  room  fitted  as  an  oratory  or  closet,  and  opening  by  a 
private  door  into  the  ducal  pew  in  the  Chapel.  His  person  was 
bowed  and  withered  by  age  and  grief,  but  his  eye  was  clear  and 
piercing,  and  his  intellect  apparently  unimpaired.  He  regarded 
his  visitor  with  an  intense  and  scrutinizing  gaze,  which  lasted 
for  several  minutes,  and  seemed  to  indicate  some  suspicion. 
There  was,  however,  about  Inglesant's  appearance  and  manner 
something  so  winning  and  attractive,  that  the  old  man's  eyes 
gradually  softened,  and  the  expression  of  distrust  that  made  his 
look  almost  that  of  a  wild  and  hunted  creature,  changed  to  one 
of  comparative  satisfaction  and  repose.  It  is  true  that  he 
regarded  Avith  pleasm-e  and  hope  every  new-comer,  from  whom 
he  expected  to  derive  consolation  and  advice. 

Inglesant  expected  that  he  would  inquire  of  the  news  of 
Rome,  of  the  Pope's  health,  and  such-hke  matters ;  but  he 
seemed  to  have  no  curiosity  concerning  such  things.  After 
waiting  for  some  time  in  silence  he  said, — 

"Anthony  Guevera  tells  us  that  we  ought  to  address  men 
who  are  under  thirty  with  '  You  are  welcome,'  or  '  You  come  in 
a  good  hour,'  because  at  that  time  of  life  they  seem  to  be  coming 
into  the  world ;  from  thirty  to  fifty  we  ought  to  greet  them 
with  'God  keep  you,'  or  'Stand  in  a  good  hour;'  and  from 
fifty  onwards,  with  '  God  speed  you,'  or  '  Go  in  a  good  hour,' 
for  from  thence  they  go  taking  their  leave  of  the  world.  The 
first  is  easy  to  say,  and  the  wish  not  unlikely  to  be  fulfilled, 
but  the  last  who  shall  ensure  ?  You  come  in  a  good  hour, 
gracefid  as  an  Apollo,  to  comfort  a  miserable  old  man ;  can  you 
assure  me  that,  when  I  pass  out  of  this  world,  I  shall  depart 
likewise  at  a  propitio\is  time?     I  am  an  old  man,  and  that 


298  JOHN  INGLESANT.;  CHAP.  XXTI. 

unseen  world  which  should  be  so  familiar  and  near  to  me  seems 
so  far  off  and  yet  so  terrible.  A  yoimg  man  steps  into  life  as 
into  a  dance,  confident  of  his  welcome,  pleased  himself  and 
pleasing  others;  the  stage  to  which  he  comes  is  bright  with 
flowers,  soft  music  sounds  on  every  side.  So  ought  the  old 
man  to  enter  into  the  new  life,  confident  of  his  welcome, 
pleasing  to  his  Maker  and  his  God,  the  heavenly  minstrelsy  in 
his  ears.  But  it  is  far  otherwise  with  me.  I  may  lay  me 
down  id  the  'Angelica  Testis,'  the  monkish  garment  that 
ensures  the  prayers  of  holy  men  for  the  departing  soul ;  but  who 
will  secure  me  the  wedding  garment  that  ensures  admission  to 
the  banquet  above  1" 

"Do  you  find  no  conafort  in  the  Blessed  Sacrament, 
Altezzaf  said  Ingiesant. 

"  Sometimes  I  niay  fancy  so ;  but  I  cannot  see  the  figaue  of 
the  Christ  for  the  hell  that  lies  between." 

"  Ah  !  Altezza,"  said  Ingiesant,  his  eyes  full  of  pity,  not 
only  for  the  old  Duke,  but  for  himself  and  all  mankind,  "it  is 
alwaj'-s  thus.  Something  stands  between  us  and  the  heavenly 
life.  My  temptation  is  other  than  yoius.  Communion  after 
communion  I  find  Christ,  and  He  is  gracious  to  me — gracious 
as  the  love  of  God  Himself;  but  month  after  month  and  year 
after  year  I  find  not  how  to  follow  Him,  and  when  the  road  is 
opened  to  me  I  am  deaf,  and  refuse  to  answer  to  the  heavenly 
call.  You,  Altezza,  are  in  more  hopeful  case  than  I;  for  it 
seems  to  me  that  your  Highness  has  but  to  throw  off  that 
blasphemous  superstition  which  is  found  in  all  Christian  creeds 
alike,  which  has  not  feared  to  blacken  even  the  shining  gates  of 
heaven  with  the  smoke  of  helL" 

"  All  creeds  are  alike,"  said  the  Duke  with  a  shudder,  "  but 
mostly  your  northern  religions,  harsh  and  bitter  as  your  skies, 
I  have  heard  from  a  Lutheran  a  system  of  religion  that  made 
my  blood  run  cold,  the  more  as  it  commends  itself  to  my  calmer 
reason." 

"And  that  is,  Altezza '?"  said  Ingiesant. 

"  This,  that  so  far  from  the  Sacrament  of  Absolution  upon 
earth,  or  at  the  hour  of  death,  availing  anything,  God  Himself 
has  no  power  to  change  the  state  of  those  who  die  without 
being  entii-ely  purified  from  every  trace  of  earthly  and  sensual 
passion ;  to  such  as  these,  though  otherwise  sincere  Christians, 
nothing  awaits  but  a  long  course  of  suflering  in  the  desolate 


CHAP.  XXVI.]  A  ROMANCE.  299 

regions  of  Hades,  as  the  Lutheran  calls  it,  until,  if  so  may  be, 
the  earthly  idea  is  annihilated  and  totally  obliterated  from  the 
heart." 

"This  seems  little  different  from  the  doctrine  of  the 
Church,"  said  Inglesant. 

"It  is  different  in  this  most  important  part,"  replied  the 
Duke,  "that  Holy  Church  purifies  and  pardons  her  penitent, 
though  he  feels  the  passions  of  earth  strong  within  him  till  the 
last ;  but  by  this  system  you  must  eradicate  these  yoiu-self.  You 
must  purify  your  heart,  you  must  feel  every  carnal  lust,  every 
vindictive  thought,  every  lofty  and  contemptuous  notion,  utterly 
dead  Avithin  you  before  you  can  enjoy  a  moment's  expectation  of 
future  peace.  He  that  goes  out  of  this  world  with  an  imcharit- 
able  thought  against  his  neighbom^  does  so  with  the  chances 
against  him  that  he  is  lost  for  ever,  for  his  face  is  tm-ned  from 
the  light,  and  h%  enters  at  once  upon  the  devious  and  downward 
w^alks  of  the  future  life ;  and  what  ground  has  he  to  expect  that 
he  who  could  not  keep  his  steps  in  this  life  will  find  any  to  turn 
him  back,  or  wdll  have  power  to  turn  himself  back,  from  every 
growing  evil  in  the  world  to  come  V 

As  the  Duke  spoke  it  seemed  to  Inglesant  that  these  words 
were  addressed  to  him  alone,  and  that  he  saw  before  him  the 
snare  of  the  Devil,  baited  with  the  miuderer  of  his  brother, 
stretched  before  his  heedless  feet  for  his  eternal  destruction. 

The  Duke  took  up  a  book  that  lay  by  him,  and  read, — 

"  The  soul  that  cherishes  the  slightest  animosity,  and  takes 
this  feeling  into  eternity,  cannot  be  happy,  though  in  other 
respects  pious  and  faithful.  Bitterness  is  completely  opposed 
to  the  nature  and  constitution  of  heaven.  The  blood  of  Christ, 
who  on  the  cross,  in  the  midst  of  the  most  excruciating 
torments,  exercised  love  instead  of  bitterness,  cleanses  from  this 
sin  also,  when  it  flows  in  oiu*  veins." 

"I  see  nothing  in  tliis,  Altezza,"  said  Inglesant  eagerly, 
" but  what  is  in  accordance  with  the  doctiines  of  the  Chiuch. 
This  is  that  idea  of  sacramental  purification,  that  Christ's  Body 
being  assimilated  to  ours  purifies  and  sanctifies.  His  Body, 
being  exalted  at  that  supreme  moment  and  effort  (the  moment 
of  His  suffering  death)  to  the  highest  piuity  of  temper  and  of 
sweetness  by  the  perfect  love  and  holiness  which  pervaded  His 
Bpirit,  has  been  able  ever  since,  in  aU  ages,  through  tlje  mystery 
of  the  Blessed  Sacrament,  to  convert  all  its  worthy  recipients 


300  JOIII^   INGLESANT  ;  [cHAP.  XXVT. 

in  some  degree  to  the  same  pure  and  holy  state.  Many  things 
which  n  en  consider  misfortunes  and  painful  experiences  are  in 
fact  but  the  force  of  this  divine  influence,  assimilating  their 
hearts  to  His,  and  attempering  their  bodies  to  the  lofty  piu-ity 
of  His  own.  This  is  the  master  work  of  the  Devil,  that  he 
should  hire  us  into  states  of  mind,  as  the  book  says,  of  bitter- 
ness and  of  violence,  by  which  this  divine  sweetness  is  tainted, 
and  this  peace  broken  by  suspicion,  by  hatred,  and  heat  of 
blood." 

"  The  book  says  somewhere,"  said  the  Duke,  turning  over 
the  leaves,  "  that,  as  the  penitent  thief  rose  from  the  cross  to 
Paradise,  so  we,  if  we  long  after  Christ  with  all  the  powers 
of  our  souls,  shall,  at  the  hour  of  death,  rapidly  soar  aloft  from 
our  mortal  remains,  and  then  all  fear  of  returning  to  earth  and 
eartidy  desires  will  be  at  an  end." 

"  It  must  surely,"  said  Inglesant  after  a»  pause,  speaking 
more  to  himself  than  to  the  Duke,  "  be  among  the  things  most 
surprising  to  an  angelic  natiu-e  that  observes  mankind,  that, 
shadows  ourselves,  standing  upon  the  confines  even  of  this 
shadowy  land,  and  not  knowing  what,  if  aught,  awaits  us  else- 
where, hatred  or  revenge  or  unkindness  should  be  among  the 
last  passions  that  are  overcome.  When  the  veil  is  lifted,  and 
we  see  things  as  they  really  are,  nothing  will  so  much  amaze  us 
as  the  blindness  and  perversity  that  marked  oiu-  life  among  our 
fellow-men.  Sm-ely  the  lofty  life  is  hard,  as  it  seems  hard  to 
your  Grace ;  but  the  very  effort  itself  is  gain." 

Inglesant  left  the  presence  of  the  Duke  after  his  first  inter- 
view impressed  and  softened,  but  troubled  in  his  mind  more 
than  ever  at. the  nature  of  the  mission  on  which  he  was  sent. 
Now  that  he  had  seen  the  Duke,  and  had  been  touched  by  his 
eager  questions,  and  by  the  earnest  searching  look  in  the  worn 
face,  his  conscience  smote  him  at  the  thought  of  abusing  his 
confidence,  and  of  persuading  him  to  adopt  a  course  which  Ingle- 
sant's  own  heart  warned  him  might  not  in  the  end  be  conducive 
either  to  his  own  peace  or  to  the  welfare  of  his  people,  whose 
hapi)iness  he  sincerely  sought.  He  found  that,  in  the  ante- 
chambers and  reception  rooms  of  the  palace,  and  even  at  the 
Duke's  own  table,  the  principal  subject  of  conversation  was  the 
expected  cession  of  the  dukedom  to  the  Papal  See;  and  that 
emissaries  from  Rome  had  preceded  him,  and  had  evidently 
received  instructions  announcing  his  arrival,  and  were  piepared 


CHAP.  XXVI.]  A  ROMANCE.  301 

to  welcome  him  as  an  important  ally.  On  the  ot/ier  hand, 
there  were  not  wanting  those  who  openly  or  covertly  opposed 
the  cession,  some  of  whom  were  said  to  he  agents  of  the  Grand 
Duke  of  Florence,  who  was  hek  to  the  Duchy  of  Umbria 
through  his  wife.  These  latter,  whose  opposition  was  more 
secret  than  open,  sought  every  opportunity  of  winning  Inglesant 
to  their  party,  employing  the  usual  arguments  with  which,  since 
his  coming  into  Italy,  he  had  been  so  familiar.  ]\Iany  days 
passed  in  this  manner,  and  Inglesant  had  repeated  conferences 
with  the  Duke,  during  which  he  made  great  progTess  in  his 
favour,  and  was  himself  won  by  his  lofty,  kindly,  and  trustful 
character. 

He  had  resided  at  Umbria  a  little  less  than  a  month,  when 
he  received  instructions  by  a  cornier  from  Rome,  by  which  he 
was  informed  that  at  the  approaching  festival  of  the  Ascension 
a  determined  effort  was  to  be  made  by  the  agents  and  friends  of 
the  Pope  to  bring  the  business  to  a  conclusion.  The  Duke  had 
promised  to  keep  this  festival,  which  is  celebrated  at  Venice 
and  in  other  parts  of  Italy  with  great  solemnity,  with  unusual 
magnificence ;  and  it  was  hoped  that  while  his  feelings  were 
influenced  and  his  religious  instincts  excited  by  the  solemn  and 
tender  thoughts  and  imaginations  which  gather  round  the  figure 
of  the  ascending  Son  of  man,  he  might  be  induced  to  sign  the 
deed  of  cession.  Hitherto  the  Duke  had  not  mentioned  the 
subject  to  Inglesant,  having  found  his  conversation  upon  ques- 
tions of  the  spiritual  life  and  practice  sufticient  to  occupy  the 
time  ;  but  it  was  not  probable  that  this  silence  would  continue 
much  longer,  and  on  the  first  day  in  Ascension  week  Inglesant 
was  attending  Vespers  at  one  of  the  Churches  in  the  town  in 
considerable  anxiety  and  trouble  of  mind. 

The  sun  had  hardly  set,  and  the  fete  in  the  garden  was  not 
yet  begun,  when.  Vespers  being  over,  he  came  out  upon  the 
river-side  lined  with  stately  houses  which  fronted  the  palace 
gardens  towering  in  terraced  walks  and  trellises  of  green  hedges 
on  the  opposite  bank.  The  sim,  setting  behind  the  wooded 
slopes,  flooded  this  green  hillside  with  soft  and  dream-like  light, 
and  bathed  the  carved  marble  fagade  of  the  palace,  rising  above 
it,  with  a  rosy  glimmer,  in  which  the  statues  on  its  roof,  and  the 
fretted  work  of  its  balustrades,  rested  against  the  darkening  blue 
of  the  evening  sky.  A  reflex  light,  ethereal  and  wonderful,  C(^m- 
ingfrom  the  sky  behind  him,  and  the  marble  buildings  and  to-n  era 


302  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [cHAP.  XXVI. 

on  which  the  sim^s  rays  rested  more  fully  than  they  did  upon 
the  palace,  brooded  over  the  river  and  the  bridge  with  its  rows 
of  angelic  forms,  and,  climbing  the  leafy  slopes,  as  if  to  contrast 
its  softer  spleudoiu:  with  the  light  above,  transfigured  with 
colour  the  wreaths  of  vapour  which  rose  itrom  the  river  and 
hung  about  its  wharves. 

The  people  were  already  crowding  out  of  the  city,  and 
forcing  their  way  across  the  bridge  towards  the  palace,  where 
the  illuminations  and  the  cmious  waterworks,  upon  which  the 
young  Duke  had,  during  his  short  reign,  expended  much  money, 
were  to  be  exhibited  as  soon  as  the  evening  was  sufficiently 
dark.  The  people  were  noisy  and  jostling,  but  as  usual  good- 
tempered  and  easily  pleased.  Few  masques  or  masquerade 
dresses  had  appeared  as  yet,  but  almost  every  one  was  armed 
with  a  small  trumpet,  a  drum,  or  a  Samarcand  cane  from  which 
to  shoot  peas  or  comfits.  At  the  corner  of  the  main  street  that 
opened  on  to  the  quay,  however,  some  disturbing  cause  was 
evidently  at  work.  The  crowd  was  perplexed  by  two  contending 
currents,  the  one  consisting  of  those  who  were  attempting  to 
turn  into  the  street  from  the  wharf,  in  order  to  learn  the  cause 
of  the  confusion,  the  other,  of  those  who  were  apparently  being 
driven  forcibly  out  of  the  street,  towards  the  wharves  and  the 
bridge,  by  pressure  from  behind.  Discordant  cries  and  exclama- 
tions of  anger  and  contempt  rose  above  the  struggling  mass. 
Taking  advantage  of  the  ciu-rent  that  swept  him  onward, 
Inglesant  reached  the  steps  of  the  Church  of  St.  Felix,  which 
stood  at  the  corner  of  the  two  streets,  immediately  opposite  the 
bridge  and  the  ducal  lions  which,  flanked  the  approach.  On 
reaching  this  commanding  situation  the  cause  of  the  tumult 
presented  itself  in  the  form  of  a  small  group  of  men,  who  were 
apparently  dragging  a  prisoner  with  them,  and  ha,d  at  this 
moment  reached  the  corner  of  the  wharf,  not  far  from  the  steps 
of  the  Church,  surrounded  and  urged  on  by  a  leaping,  shouting, 
and  excited  crowd.  Seen  from  the  top  of  the  broad  marble 
bases  that  flanked  the  steps,  the  whole  of  the  wide  space,  formed 
by  the  confluence  of  the  streets,  and  over  which  the  shadows 
were  rapidly  darkening,  presented  nothing  but  a  sea  of  agitated 
and  tossing  heads,  while,  from  the  windows,  the  bridge,  and 
even  the  distant  marble  terraced  steps  that  led  up  to  the  palace, 
the  crowd  appeared  curious,  and  conscious  that  something  un- 
usual was  in  progress. 


CHAP.  XXVI.]  A  ROMANCE.  303 

From  the  cries  and  aspect  of  the  crowd,  and  of  the  men  who 
dragged  their  prisoner  along,  it  was  evident  that  it  was  the 
intention  of  the  people  to  throw  the  wretched  man  over  the 
parapets  of  the  bridge  into  the  river  below,  and  that  to  frustrate 
this  intention  not  a  moment  was  to  be  lost.  The  pressure  of 
the  crowd,  greater  from  the  opposite  direction  than  from  the 
one  in  which  Inglesant  had  come,  fortunately  swept  the  group 
almost  to  the  foot  of  the  steps.  Near  to  Inglesant,  and  clinging 
to  the  carved  bases  of  the  half  columns  that  supported  the 
fagade  of  the  Church,  were  two  or  three  priests  who  had  come 
out  of  the  interior,  attracted  by-  the  tumult.  Availing  himself 
of  their  support,  Inglesant  shouted  to  the  captors  of  the 
unhappy  man,  in  the  name  of  the  Chm'ch  and  of  the  Duke,  to 
bring  their  prisoner  up  the  steps.  They  probably  would  not 
have  obeyed  him,  though  they  hesitated  for  a  moment ;  but  the 
surrounding  crowd,  attracted  towards  the  Church  by  Inglesant's 
gestures,  began  to  press  upon  it  from  all  sides,- as  he  had  indeed 
foreseen  would  be  the  case,  and  finally,  by  their  unconscious  and 
involuntary  motion,  swept  the  prisoner  and  his  captors  up  the 
steps  to  the  side  of  the  priests  and  of  Inglesant.  It  was  a 
singular  scene.  The  rapidly  advancing  night  had  changed  the 
golden  haze  of  sunset  to  a  sombre  gloom,  but  lights  began  to 
appear  in  the  houses  all  around,  and  paper  lanterns  showed 
themselves  among  the  crowd. 

The  cause  of  all  this  confusion  was  dragged  by  his  perse- 
cutors up  the  steps,  and  placed  upon  the  last  of  the  flight,  con- 
fronting the  priests.  His  hair  was  disordered,  his  clothes  nearly 
torn  from  his  limbs,  and  his  face  and  dress  streaked  with  blood. 
Past  the  curtain  across  the  entrance  of  the  Chiirch,  which  was 
partly  drawn  back  by  those  inside,  a  flash  of  light  shot  across 
the  marble  platform,  and  shone  upon  the  faces  of  the  foremost 
of  the  crowd.  This  light  shone  fidl  upon  Inglesant,  who  stood, 
in  striking  contrast  to  the  dishevelled  figm-e  that  confronted 
him,  dressed  in  a  suit  of  black  satin  and  silver,  with  a  deep 
collar  of  Point-de- Venice  lace.  The  priests  stood  a  little  behind, 
apparently  desirous  to  learn  the  nature  of  the  prisoner's  offence 
before  they  interfered;  and  the  accusers  therefore  addressed 
themselves  to  Inglesant,  who,  indeed,  was  recognized  by  many 
as  a  friend  of  the  Duke,  and  whom  the  priests  especially  had 
received  instructions  from  Rome  to  support.  The  confusion  in 
the  crowd  meanwhile  increased  rather  than  diminished ;  there 


304  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [cHAP.  XXVI, 

seemed  to  "be  causes  it  work  other  than  the  slight  one  of  the 
seizure  by  the  mob  of  an  unpopular  man.  Tlie  town  was  very 
full  of  strangers,  and  it  struck  Inglesant  that  the  arrest  of  the 
man  before  him  was  merely  an  excuse,  and  was  being  used  by 
some  who  had  an  object  to  gain  by  stirring  up  the  people.  He 
saw,  at  any  rate,  however  this  might  be,  a  means  of  engaging 
the  priests  to  assist  him,  should  their  aid  be  necessary  in  saving 
the  man's  life. 

That  there  was  a  passionate  attachment  among  the  people 
to  a  separate  and  independent  government  of  their  city  and  state, 
an  affection  towards  the  family  of  their  hereditary  dukes,  and  a 
dread  and  jealous  dishke  of  the  Pope's  government  and  of  the 
priests,  he  had  reason  to  believe.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the 
people  were  about  to  break  forth  into  some  demonstration  of 
this  antipathy,  which,  if  allowed  to  take  place,  and  if  taken  ad- 
vantage of,  as  it  would  be,  by  the  neighboiuring  princes,  would 
be  most  displeasing  to  the  policy  of  Rome,  if  not  entirely  sub- 
versive of  it.  With  these  thoughts  in  his  mind,  as  he  stood  for 
a  moment  silent  on  the  marble  platform,  and  saw  before  him, 
what  is  perhaps  the  most  impressive  of  all  sights,  a  vast  assem- 
blage of  people  in  a  state  of  violent  and  excited  opposition,  and 
reflected  on  the  causes  which  he  imagined  agitated  them, — 
causes  which  in  his  heart  he,  though  enlisted  on  the  opposite 
side,  had  difficulty  in  persuading  himself  were  not  justifiable, — 
it  came  into  his  mind  more  powerfully  than  ever,  that  the 
moment  foretold  to  him  by  Serenus  de  Cressy  was  at  last 
indeed  come.  Surely  it  behoved  him  to  look  well  to  his  steps, 
lest  he  should  be  found  at  last  absolutely  and  unequivocally 
fighting  against  his  conscience  and  his  God;  if,  indeed,  this 
looking  well  to  their  steps  on  such  occasions,  and  not  boldly 
choosing  their  side,  had  not  been  for  many  years  the  prevailing 
vice  of  his  family,  and  to  some  extent  the  cause  of  his  own 
spiritual  failm-e. 

The  two  men  who  held  the  apparent  cause  of  all  this  uproar 
were  two  mechanics  of  jovial  aspect,  who  appeared  to  look  upon 
the  affair  more  in  the  light  of  a  brutal  practical  joke  (no  worse 
in  their  eyes  for  its  brutality),  than  as  a  very  serious  matter. 
To  Inglesant's  question  what  the  man  had  done  they  answered 
that  he  had  refused  to  kneel  to  the  Blessed  Sacrament,  as  it 
was  being  carried  through  the  streets  to  some  poor,  dying  soul, 
and  upon  being  remonstrated  with,  had  reviled  not  only  the 


CHAP.  XXVI.]  A  ROMANCE.  305 

Sacrament  itself,  but  the  Virgin,  the  Holy  Father,  and  the 
Italians  generally,  as  Papistical  asses,  ^A■ith  no  more  sense  than 
the  Pantaleoni  of  their  own  comedies.  The  men  gave  this  evi- 
dence in  an  insolent  half-jesting  manner,  as  though  not  sorry  to 
utter  such  words  safely  in  the  presence  of  the  priests. 

Ingiesant,  who  kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  prisoner,  and 
noticed  that  he  was  rapidly  recovering  from  the  breathless  and 
exhausted  condition  the  ill-treatment  he  had  met  with  had 
reduced  him  to,  and  was  assiuning  a  determined  and  somewhat 
noble  aspect,  abstained  from  questioning  him,  lest  he  should 
make  his  own  case  only  the  more  desperate;  but,  tiu-ning  to 
the  priests,  he  rapidly  explained  his  fears  to  them,  and  m-ged 
that  the  man  should  be  immediately  secured  from  the  people, 
that  he  might  be  examined  by  the  Duke,  and  the  result  for- 
warded to  Rome.  The  priests  hesitated.  Apart  from  the 
difficulty,  they  said,  of  taking  the  man  out  of  the  hands  of  his 
captors,  such  a  com'se  would  be  sure  to  exasperate  the  people 
still  fiu'ther,  and  bring  on  the  very  evil  that  he  was  desirous 
of  averting.  It  would  be  better  to  let  the  mob  work  their  will 
upon  the  man ;  it  would  at  least  occupy  some  time,  and  every 
moment  was  precious.  In  less  than  an  hom*  the  fireworks  at 
the  palace  would  begin,  might  indeed  be  hastened  by  a  special 
messenger;  and  the  fete  once  begun,  they  hoped  all  danger 
would  be  over.  To  this  Ingiesant  answered  that  the  man's 
arrest  was  evidently  only  an  excuse  for  riot,  and  had  probably 
already  answered  its  purpose  ;  that  to  confine  the  people's  atten- 
tion to  it  would  be  unfavourable  to  the  intentions  of  those  who 
were  promoting  a  political  tumult ;  and  that  the  avowed  cause 
of  the  man's  seizure,  and  of  the  excitement  of  the  mob,  being 
disrespectful  language  towards  the  Holy  Father,  the  tumult,  if 
properly  managed,  might  be  made  of  service  to  the  cause  of 
Rome  rather  than  the  reverse. 

Without  waiting  for  the  effect  of  this  somewhat  obscure 
argument  on  the  priests,  Ingiesant  directed  the  men  who  held 
their  prisoner  to  bring  him  into  the  Church.  They  were  unwill- 
ing to  do  so,  but  the  crowd  below  was  so  confused  and  tumultu- 
ous, one  shouting  one  thing  and  one  another,  tliat  it  seemed 
impossible  that,  if  they  descended  into  it  again,  they  would  be 
allowed  to  retain  their  prey,  and  would  not  rather  be  over- 
whelmed in  a  common  destruction  with  him.  On  the  other 
hand,  by  obeying  Ingiesant,  they  at  least  kept  possession  of 


306  JOHN  INGLE  {^ANT;  [chap,  xxvi 

their  prisoner,  and  could  therefore  scarcely  fail  of  receiving 
some  reward  from  the  authorities.  They  therefore  consented, 
and  by  a  sudden  movement  they  entered  the  Church,  the  doors 
of  which  were  immediately  closed,  after  some  few  of  the  popu- 
lace had  managed  to  squeeze  themselves  in.  A  messenger  was 
at  once  despatched  to  the  palace  to  hasten  the  fireworks,  and  to 
request  that  a  detachment  of  the  Duke's  guard  should  be  sent 
into  the  Church  by  a  back  way. 

The  darkness  had  by  this  time  so  much  increased  that  few 
of  the  people  were  aware  of  what  had  taken  place,  and  the 
ignorance  of  the  crowd  as  to  the  cause  of  the  tumult  was  so 
general  that  little  disturbance  took  place  among  those  who 
were  shut  out  of  the  Chiu-ch.  They  remained  howling  and 
hooting,  it  is  true,  for  some  time,  and  some  went  so  flir  as  to 
beat  against  the  closed  doors ;  but  a  rimiour  being  spread  among 
the  crowd  that  the  firew^orks  were  immediately  to  begin,  they 
grew  tired  of  this  unproductive  occupation,  and  flocked  almost 
to  a  man  out  of  the  square  and  wharves,  and  crowded  across 
the  bridge  into  the  gardens. 

When  the  guard  arrived,  Inglesant  claimed  the  man  as  the 
Duke's  prisoner,  to  be  examined  before  him  in  the  morning. 
The  curiosity  of  the  Duke  in  all  religious  matters  being  well 
known,  this  seemed  very  reasonable  to  the  officer  of  the  guard, 
and  the  priests  did  not  like  to  dispute  it  after  the  instructions 
they  had  received  with  regard  to  Inglesant's  mission.  The  tv  o 
artisans  were  propitiated  by  a  considerable  reward,  and  the 
prisoner  was  then  transported  by  unfrequented  ways  to  the 
palace,  and  shut  up  in  a  solitary  apartment,  whilst  the  rest  of 
the  world  delighted  itself  at  the  palace  fetes. 

The  garden  festivities  passed  away  amid  general  rejoicing 
and  applause.  The  finest  eff'ect  was  produced  at  the  conclusion, 
when  the  whole  mass  of  water  at  the  command  of  the  engines, 
being  thrown  into  the  air  in  thin  fan-like  jets,  was  illuminated 
by  various  coloured  lights,  producing  the  appearance  of  innumer- 
able rainbows,  through  which  the  palace  itself,  the  orangerie.'j, 
the  gardens,  and  terraces,  and  the  crowds  of  delighted  people, 
were  seen  illuminated  and  refracted  in  varied  and  ever-changing 
tints.  Amid  these  sparkling  colours  strange  birds  passed  to 
and  fro,  and  angelic  forms  descended  by  unseen  machinery  and 
walked  on  the  higher  terraces,  and  as  it  were  upon  the  flashing 
rainbows  theinselves.     Delicious  music  from  unseen  instruments 


CHAP.  XXVII.]  A  ROMANCE.  307 

ravished  the  sense,  and  when  the  scene  appeared  complete  and 
nothing  farther  was  expected,  an  orange  grove  in  the  centre  of 
the  whole  apparently  burst  open,  and  displaj^ed  the  stage  of  a 
theatre,  upon  which  antic  characters  performed  a  pantomime, 
and  one  of  the  finest  voices  in  Italy  sang  an  ode  in  honour  of 
the  day,  of  the  Duke,  and  of  the  Pope. 


CHAPTER   XXVII, 

The  Duke  had  engaged  the  next  morning  to  be  present  at  a 
theatrical  representation  of  a  religious  character,  somewhat  of 
the  nature  of  a  miracle  play,  to  be  given  in  the  courtyard  of 
the  "  Hospital  of  Death,"  which  adjoined  to  the  Campo  Santo 
of  the  city. 

Before  accompanying  his  Highness,  Inglesant  had  given 
orders  to  have  the  man,  who  had  been  the  cause  of  so  much 
excitement  the  evening  before,  brought  into  his  apartment, 
that  he  might  see  whether  or  no  his  eccentricity  made  him 
sulficiently  interesting  to  be  presented  to  the  Duke. 

AVhen  the  stranger  was  brought  to  the  palace  early  in  the 
morning,  and  having  been  foimd  to  be  quite  harmless,  was 
entrusted  by  the  guard  to  two  servants  to  be  brought  into 
Inglesant's  presence,  he  thought  himself  in  a  new  world. 
Hitherto  his  acquaintance  with  Italian  life  had  been  that  of  a 
stranger  and  from  the  outside ;  he  v/as  now  to  see  somewhat  of 
the  interior  life  of  a  people  among  whom  the  glories  of  the 
Eenaissance  still  lingered,  and  to  see  it  in  one  of  the  most 
wonderful  of  the  Renaissance  works,  the  ducal  palace  of  Umbria. 
Born  in  the  dull  twilight  of  the  north,  and  having  spent  most 
of  his  matm-e  years  amongst  the  green  mezzotints  of  Germany, 
he  was  now  transplanted  into  a  Isftid  of  light  and  colour, 
dazzling  to  a  stranger  so  brought  up.  Reared  in  the  sternest 
discipline,  he  found  himself  among  a  people  to  whom  life  was  a 
fine  art,  and  the  cidtivation  of  the  present  and  its  enjoyments 
the  end  of  existence.  From  room  to  room,  as  he  followed  his 
guide,  who  pointed  out  from  time  to  time  such  of  the  beautien 
of  the  place  as  he  considered  most  worthy  of  notice,  the  stranger 
saw  around  what  certainly  might  have  intoxicated  a  less  com- 
posed and  determined  brain. 


308  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [chap.  XXVII. 

The  highest  efforts  of  the  genius  of  the  Renaissance  had 
been  expended  upon  this  magnificent  house.  The  birth  of  a 
new  instinct,  differing  in  some  respects  from  any  instincts  of 
art  which  had  preceded  it,  i^roduced  in  this  and  other  similar 
efforts  original  and  wonderful  results.  The  old  Greek  art 
entered  with  unsurpassable  intensity  into  sympathy  with  human 
life ;  but  it  was  of  necessity  original  and  creative,  looking  always 
forward  and  not  back,  and  lacked  the  pathos  and  depth  of 
feeling  that  accompanied  that  new  birth  of  art  which  sought 
much  of  its  inspiration  among  the  tombs  and  ruined  gi'ottoes, 
and  most  of  its  sympathetic  power  among  the  old  well-springs 
of  human  feeling,  read  in  the  torn  and  faded  memorials  of  past 
suffering  and  destruction.  This  new  instinct  of  art  abandoned 
itself  without  reserve  to  the  pursuit  of  everything  which  man- 
kind had  ever  beheld  of  the  beautiful,  or  had  felt  of  the  pathetic 
or  the  sad,  or  had  dreamed  of  the  noble  or  the  ideal.  The 
genius  of  the  Renaissance  set  itself  to  reproduce  this  enchanted 
world  of  form  and  colour,  traversed  by  thoughts  and  sphitual 
existences  mysterious  and  beautiful,  and  the  home  of  beings 
who  had  found  this  form  and  colour  and'  these  mysterious 
thoughts  blend  into  a  human  life  delicious  in  its  very  sorrows, 
grotesque  and  incongruous  in  its  beauty,  alluring  and  attractive 
amid  all  its  griefs  and  hardships ;  so  much  so  indeed  that,  in 
the  language  of  the  old  fables,  the  Gods  themselves  could  not 
be  restrained  from  throwing  off  their  divine  garments,  and 
wandering  up  and  down  among  the  paths  and  the  adventures 
of  men.  By  grotesque  and  humorous  delineation,  by  fanciful 
reiDresentation  of  human  passion  under  strange  and  unexpected 
form,  by  the  dumb  ass  speaking  and  gra.^^ shoppers  playing  upon 
flutes,  was  this  world  of  intelligent  life  reproduced  in  the  rooms 
and  on  the  walls  of  the  house  through  which  the  stranger 
walked  for  the  fuist  time. 

He  probably  thought  tkat  he  saw  little  of  it,  yet  the  bizarre 
effect  was  burning  itself  into  his  brain.  From  the  ovei hanging 
chimney-pieces  antique  masques  and  figures  such  as  he  had 
never  seen,  even  in  dreams,  leered  out  upon  him  from  arabesque 
carvings  of  foliage,  or  skulked  behind  trophies  of  war,  of  music, 
or  of  the  arts  of  peace.  The  door  and  window  frames  seemed 
bowers  of  fruit  and  flowers,  and  forests  of  carved  leaves 
wreath  id  the  pilasters  and  walls.  But  this  was  not  all ;  with 
a  perfection  of  design  and  an  extraordinary  power  of  fancy,  this 


CHAP.  XXVII.]  A  ROaiANCE.  309 

world  of  sylvan  imagery  was  peopled  by  figures  anil  stories  of 
exquisite  grace  and  sweetness,  representing  the  most  touching 
incidents  of  hiiuian  life  and  history.  Men  and  women ;  lovers 
and  warriors  in  conflicts  and  dances  and  festivals,  in  sacrifices  and 
games ;  children  sporting  among  flowers ;  bereavement  and 
death,  husbandry  and  handicraft,  hunters  and  beasts  of  chase. 
Again,  among  briony  and  jasmin  and  roses,  or  perched  upon 
ears  of  corn  and  sheaves  of  maize,  birds  of  every  plumage  con- 
fronted— so  the  grotesque  genius  willed — fish  and  sea  monsters 
and  shells  and  marine  wonders  of  every  kind. 

Upon  the  walls,  relieved  by  panelling  of  wood,  were  paint- 
ings of  landscapes  and  the  ruined  buildings  of  antiquity  over- 
grown with  moss,  or  of  modern  active  life  in  markets  and 
theatres,  of  churches  and  cities  in  the  coiurse  of  erection,  with 
the  architects  and  scafi'old  poles,  of  the  processions  and  marriages 
of  princes,  of  the  ruin  of  emperors  and  of  kings.  Below  and 
beside  these  were  credenzas  and  cabinets  upon  which  luxiu-y 
and  art  had  lavished  every  costly  device  and  material  which 
the  world  conceived  or  yielded.  Inlaid  with  precious  woods, 
and  glittering  with  costly  jewels  and  marbles,  they  reproduced 
in  these  diftering  materials  all  tli^se  infinite  designs  which  the 
carved  walls  had  already  wearied  themselves  to  express. 
Plaques  and  vases  from  Castel  Diu-ante  or  Faience, — some  of  a 
strange  pale  colom*,  others  brilliant  with  a  grotesque  combina- 
tion of  blue  and  yellow, — crowded  the  shelves. 

Passing  through  this  long  succession  of  rooms,  the  stianger 
reached  at  last  a  library,  a  noble  apartment  of  great  size, 
furnished  with  books  in  brilliant  antique  binding  of  gold  and 
white  vellum,  and  otherwise  ornamented  with  as  much  richness 
as  the  rest  of  the  palace.  Upon  reading  desks  were  open  manu- 
scripts and  printed  books  richly  illuminated.  Connected  with 
this  apartment  by  open  arches  was  an  anteroom  or  corridor, 
which  again  opened  on  a  loggia,  beyond  the  shady  arches  of 
which  lay  the  palace  gardens,  long  vistas  of  green  walks,  and 
reaches  of  blue  sky,  flecked  and  crossed  by  the  spray  of  fountains. 
The  decorations  of  the  anteroom  and  loggia  were  more  profuse 
and  extravagant  than  any  that  the  stranger  had  yet  seen. 
There  was  a  tradition  that  this  portion  of  the  palace  had  been 
finished  last,  and  that  when  the  workmen  arrived  at  it  the  time 
for  the  completion  of  the  whole  was  very  nearly  run  out.  The 
attention  of  all  the  great  artists,  hitherto  engaged  upon  difiereut 


310  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [CHAP.  XXVII. 

parts  of  the  entire  palace,  was  concentrated  upon  this  unfinished 
portion,  and  all  their  workmen  and  assistants  were  called  to 
labour  upon  it  alone.  The  work  went  on  by  night  and  day, 
not  ceasing  even  to  aUow  of  sleep.  Unlimited  supplies  of 
Greek  wine  were  fiu-nished  to  the  workmen ;  and  stimulated  by 
excitement  and  the  love  of  art,  emulating  each  other,  and  half- 
intoxicated  by  the  delicious  wine,  the  work  exceeded  all  previous 
productions.  For  wild  boldness  and  luxm-iance  of  fancy  these 
rooms  were  probably  unequalled  in  the  world. 

In  the  anteroom  facing  the  loggia  the  stranger  found  Ingle- 
sant  conversing  with  an  Italian  who  held  rather  a  singular  post 
in  the  ducal  Court.  He  was  standing  before  a  cabinet  of  black 
oak,  inlaid  with  representations  of  lutes  and  fifes,  over  w^hich 
were  strewn  roses  confined  by  coloiued  ribbons,  and  supporting 
vases  of  blue  and  yellow  majolica,  thrown  into  strong  relief  by 
the  black  wood.  Above  this  cabinet  was  a  painting  represent- 
ing some  battle  in  which  a  former  Duke  had  won  great  honour ; 
while  on  a  grassy  knoll  in  the  foreground  the  huntsmen  of 
Ganymede  were  standing  with  their  eyes  turned  upward  towards 
the  bird  of  Zeus,  who  is  carrying  the  youth  away  to  the  skies, 
emblematical  of  the  alleged  apotheo.sis  of  the  ducal  hero. 
Richly  dressed  in  a  fantastic  suit  of  striped  silk,  and  leaning 
against  the  cabinet  in  an  attitude  of  listless  repose,  Inglesant 
w^as  contemplating  an  object  which  he  held  in  his  hand,  and 
which  both  he  and  his  companion  appeared  to  regard  wdth 
intense  interest.  This  was  an  antique  statuette  of  a  faun, 
holding  its  tail  in  its  left  hand,  and  turning  its  head  and  body 
to  look  at  it, — an  occupation  of  which,  if  we  may  trust  the 
monuments  of  antiquity,  this  singular  creature  appears  to  have 
been  fond.  The  Italian  was  of  a  striking  figm*e,  and  was 
dressed  somewhat  more  gaily  than  was  customary  with  his 
countrymen ;  and  the  whole  group  was  fully  in  unison  with  the 
spirit  of  the  place  and  wnth  the  wealth  of  beauty  and  luxury  of 
human  life  that  pervaded  the  whole. 

The  man  who  was  standing  by  Inglesant's  side,  and  who 
had  the  air  of  a  connoisseur  or  virtuoso,  was  an  Italian  of  some 
fifty  years  of  age.  His  appearance,  as  has  been  said,  was 
striking  at  first  sight,  but  on  longer  acquaintance  became  very 
much  more  so.  He  was  tall  and  had  bem  dark,  but  his  hair 
and  beard  were  plentifully  streaked  with  gray.  His  features 
were  large  and  aquihne,  and  his  face  deeply  fm-rowed  and  lined. 


CHAP.  XXVII.]  A  ROMANCE.  311 

His  appearance  would  have  been  painfully  worn,  almost  to 
gliastliness,  but  for  a  mocking  and  humorous  expression  which 
laughed  from  his  eyes,  his  mouth,  his  nostrils,  and  every  Une 
and  feature  of  his  face.  Whenever  this  expression  subsided, 
and  his  countenance  sank  into  repose,  a  look  of  wan  sadness 
and  even  terror  took  its  place,  and  the  large  black  eyes  became 
fixed  and  intense  in  their  gaze,  as  though  some  appalling  object 
attracted  their  regard. 

This  man  had  been  bom  of  a  good  but  poor  family,  and  had 
been  educated  by  his  relations  with  the  expectation  of  his 
becoming  an  ecclesiastic,  and  he  had  even  passed  some  time  as 
a  novice  of  some  religious  order.  The  tendency  of  his  mind 
not  leading  him  to  the  further  piusuit  of  a  religious  hfe,  he  left 
his  monastery,  and  addressed  himself  to  live  by  his  wits,  among 
the  families  and  households  of  princes.  He  had  made  himself 
very  useful  in  arranging  comedies  and  pageantries,  and  he  had 
at  one  time  belonged  to  one  of  those  dramatic  companies  called 
"Zajgai,"  who  went  about  the  country  reciting  and  acting 
comedies.  Combined  with  this  talent  he  discovered  great  apti- 
tude in  the  management  of  serious  affairs,  and  was  more  than 
once,  while  apparently  engaged  entirely  on  theatrical  perform- 
ances, employed  in  secret  State  negotiations  which  could  not  so 
well  be  entrusted  to  an  acknowledged  and  conspicuous  agent. 
In  this  manner  of  life  he  might  have  continued ;  but  having 
become  involved  in  one  of  the  contests  which  disturbed  Italy, 
he  received  a  dangerous  wound  in  the  head,  and  on  rising  from 
his  sick  bed  in  the  Albergo  in  which  he  had  been  nursed,  he 
was  merely  removed  to  another  as  a  singular  if  not  dangerous 
lunatic.  The  symptoms  of  his  disease  first  manifested  them- 
selves in  a  very  unpleasant  familiarity  with  the  secrets  of  those 
aroimd  him,  and  it  was  probably  this  feature  of  his  complaint 
which  led  to  his  detention.  As  he  improved  in  health,  how- 
ever, he  ceased  to  indulge  in  any  conversation  which  might  give 
offence,  but,  assuming  a  sedate  and  agreeable  manner,  he  con- 
versed with  all  who  came  to  him,  calling  them,  although 
strangers  and  such  as  he  had  never  before  seen,  by  their  proj^er 
names,  and  talking  to  them  pleasantly  concerning  their  parents, 
relations,  the  coats -of- arms  of  their  families,  and  such  other 
harmless  and  agreeable  matters. 

What  brought  him  prominently  into  notice  was  the  strangely 
prophetic  spirit  he  manifested  before,  or  at  the  moment  of  the 


312 


[chap.  XXVlIi 


occurrence  of,  more  than  one  public  event.  He  was  taken  from 
the  hospital  and  examined  by  the  Pope,  and  afterwards  at 
several  of  the  sovereign  Courts  of  Italy.  Thus,  not  long  before 
the  time  when  Inglesant  met  him  in  the  ducal  palace  at  Umbria, 
he  was  at  Chambery  assisting  at  the  preparation  of  some 
festivals  which  the  young  Duke  of  Savoy  was  engaged  in  cele- 
brating. One  day,  as  he  was  seated  at  dinner  with  several  of 
the  Duke's  servants,  he  suddenly  started  up  from  his  seat, 
exclaiming  that  he  saw  the  Duke  de  Nemours  fall  dead  from 
his  horse,  killed  by  a  pistol  shot.  The  Duke,  who  was  uncle 
to  the  young  monarch  of  Savoy,  was  then  in  France,  where  he 
was  one  of  the  leaders  of  the  party  of  the  Fronde.  Before 
many  days  were  passed,  however,  the  news  reached  Chambery 
of  the  fatal  duel  between  this  nobleman  and  the  Duke  of 
Beaufort,  which  occmTcd  at  the  moment  the  Italian  had  thus 
annoimced  it. 

These  and  other  similar  circumstances  caused  the  man  to  be 
much  talked  of  and  sought  after  among  the  Courts  of  Italy, 
where  a  belief  in  manifestations  of  the  supernatiu-al  was  scarcely 
less  universal  than  in  the  previous  age,  when,  according  to  an 
eye-witness,  "  the  Pope  would  decide  no  question,  would  take 
no  journey,  hold  no  sitting  of  the  Consistory,  without  first  con- 
sulting the  stars;  nay,  very  few  cardinals  would  transact  an 
affair  of  any  kind,  were 'it  but  to  buy  a  load  of  wood,  except 
after  consultation  duly  held  with  some  astrologer  or  wizard." 
The  credit  which  the  man  gained,  and  the  benefits  he  derived 
from  this  reputation,  raised  him  many  enemies,  who  did  not 
scruple  to  assert  that  he  was  simply  a  clever  knave,  who  was 
not  even  his  own  dupe.  Setting  on  one  side,  however,  the 
revelations  of  the  distant  and  the  unknown  made  by  him,  which 
seemed  inexplicable  except  by  supposing  him  possessed  of  some 
unusual  spiritual  faculty,  there  was  in  the  man  an  amxount  of 
knowledge  of  the  world  and  of  men  of  all  classes  and  ranks, 
combined  with  much  learning  and  a  humorous  wit,  which  made 
his  company  well  worth  having  for  his  conversation  alone.  It 
was  not  then  surprising  that  he  should  be  found  at  this  juncture 
at  the  Court  of  Umbria,  where  the  peculiar  idiosyncrasies  of 
the  aged  Duke,  and  the  interest  attached  to  the  intrigue  for 
the  cession  of  the  dukedom,  had  assembled  a  strange  and  hetero- 
geneous company,  and  towards  which  at  the  moment  aU  men's 
eyes  in  Italy  were  turned. 


CHAP.  XXVII.]  A  ROMANCE.  313 

"Yes,  donblless,  it  is  an  antique,"  the  Italian  was  saying, 
"though  in  the  last  age  many  artists  produced  masqi.es  and 
figures  so  admirable  as  to  be  mistaken  for  antiques;  witness 
that  masque  which  IMessire  Giorgio  Vasari  says  he  put  in  a 
chimney-piece  of  his  house  at  Arezzo,  which  every  one  took  to 
be  an  antique.  I  have  seen  such  myself.  This  little  fellow, 
however,  I  saw  found  in  a  vineyard  near  the  Misericordia — a 
place  which  I  take  to  have  been  at  some  time  or  other  the  scene 
of  some  terrible  event,  such  as  a  conflict  or  struggle  or  massacre ; 
for  though  now  it  is  quiet  and  serene  enough,  with  the  suuKght 
and  the  rusthng  leaves,  and  the  splash  of  a  fountain  about  which 
there  is  some  good  carving,  I  think,  of  Fra  Giovanni  Agnolo, — ■ 
for  all  this,  I  never  walk  there  but  I  feel  the  presence  of  fatal 
events,  and  a  sense  of  dim  figures  engaged  in  conflict,  and  of 
faint  and  distant  cries  and  groans." 

As  he  spoke  these  last  words  his  eye  rested  upon  the  strange 
figure  of  the  man  so  hardly  rescued  from  death  the  night  before, 
and  he  stopped.  His  manner  changed,  and  his  eyes  assumed 
that  expression  of  intense  expectation  of  which  we  have  spoken 
before.  The  appearance  of  the  stranger,  and  the  contrast  it 
presented  to  the  objects  around,  was  indeed  such  as  to  make 
him  almost  seem  an  inhabitant  of  another  world,  and  one  of 
those  phantasms  of  past  conflict  of  which  the  Italian  had  just 
spoken.  His  clothes,  which  had  originally  been  of  the  plainest 
texture,  and  most  uncourtly  make,  were  worn  and  ragged,  and 
stained  with  damp  and  dirt.  His  form  and  features  were  gaunt 
and  uncouth,  and  his  gesture  stiff"  and  awkward ;  but,  with  all 
this,  there  was  a  certain  steadiness  and  dignity  about  his  man- 
ner, which  threw  an  appearance  of  nobility  over  this  rugged 
and  unpleasing  form.  Contrasted  with  tbe  dress  and  manner 
of  the  other  men,  he  looked  like  some  enthusiastic  projjhet, 
standing  in  the  house  of  mirth  and  luxury,  and  predicting  ruin 
and  wpe. 

At  this  moment  a  servant  entered  the  room,  bringing  a 
Bottocoppa  of  silver,  upon  which  were  two  or  three  stiff"  necked 
glasses,  called  caraffas,  containing  different  sorts  of  whie,  and 
also  water,  anJ  one  or  two  more  empty  drinking-glasses,  so  that 
the  visitor  could  please  himself  as  to  the  strength  and  nature  of 
his  beverage.  Inglesant  offered  this  refreshment  to  the  Italian, 
who  filled  himself  a  glass  and  drank,  pledging  Inglesant  as  he 
did  so.     The  latter  did  not  drink,  but  offered  wine  and  cakes  to 


314  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [chap,  xxvii. 

the  stranger,  who  refused  or  rather  took  no  heed  of  these  offers 
of  pohteness ;  he  remained  silent,  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  face  of  the  man  who,  but  a  few  hours  before,  had  saved  him 
from  a  violent  death. 

"  I  have  had  some  feelings  of  this  kind  myself,  in  certain 
places,"  said  Inglesant,  in  answer  to  the  Italian's  speech,  "  and 
very  frequently  in  all  jDlaces  the  sense  of  something  vanishing, 
which  in  another  moment  I  should  have  seen ;  it  has  seemed  to 
me  that,  could  I  once  see  this  thing,  matters  woidd  be  very 
different  with  me.  Whether  I  ever  shall  or  not  I  do  not 
know." 

"Who  can  say?"  replied  the  other.  "We  live  and  move 
amid  a  crowd  of  flitting  objects  unknown  or  dimly  seen.  The 
beings  and  powers  of  the  unseen  world  throng  around  us.  We 
call  ourselves  lords  of  our  own  actions  and  fate,  but  we  are  ini 
reality  the  slaves  of  every  atom  of  matter  of  which  the  world  is 
made  and  we  oiu-selves  created.  Among  this  phantasm  of 
struggling  forms  and  influences  (like  a  man  forcing  his  way 
tlirough  a  crowd  of  masques  who  mock  at  him  and  retard  his 
steps)  we  fight  our  way  towards  the  light.  Many  of  us  are 
born  with  the  seeds  within  us  of  that  wliich  makes  such  a  fight 
hopeless  from  the  first — the  seeds  of  disease,  of  ignorance,  of 
adverse  circumstance,  of  stupidity ;  for  even  a  dullard  has  had 
once  or  twice  in  his  life  glimpses  of  the  light.  So  we  go  on.  I 
was  at  Chambery  once  when  a  man  came  before  the  Duke  in 
the  palace  garden  to  ask  an  alms.  He  was  a  worker  in  gold,  a 
good  artist,  not  unworthy  of  CeUini  himself.  His  sight  had 
failed  him,  and  he  could  no  longer  work  for  bread  to  give  to  his 
children.  He  stood  before  the  Prince  and  those  who  stood  with 
him,  among  whom  were  a  Cardinal  and  two  or  three  nobles,  with 
their  pages  and  grooms,  trying  with  his  dim  eyes  to  make  out 
one  from  the  other,  which  was  noble  and  which  was  groom,  and 
to  see  whether  his  suit  was  rejected  or  allow^ed.  Behind  him, 
beyond  the  garden  shade  the  dazzling  ghtter  stretched  up  to  the 
white  Alps.  We  are  all  the  creatures  of  a  day,  and  the  puny 
afflictions  of  any  man's  life  are  not  worth  a  serious  thought : 
yet  this  man  seemed  to  me  so  true  an  image  of  his  kind,  help- 
less and  half-blind,  yet  struggling  to  work  out  some  good  for 
himself,  that  I  felt  a  strange  emotion  of  pity.  They  gave  him 
alms — some  more,  some  leiBS.  I  was  a  fool,  yet  even  now  I 
think  the  man  was  no  bad  ejabiem  of  the  life  of  each  of  us.    We 


OHAl.  XXVII.]  A  ROMANCK  315 

do  not  understand  this  enough.  Will  the  time  ever  come  when 
these  things  will  be  better  known  ^" 

As  the  Italian  spoke  the  stranger  took  his  eyes  off  Inglesant 
and  fixed  them  on  the  sj^eaker  with  a  startled  expression,  as 
though  the  tone  of  his  discourse  was  unexpected  to  him.  He 
scarcely  waited  for  the  other  to  finish  before  he  broke  in  upon 
the  conversation,  speaking  slowly  and  with  intense  earnestness, 
as  though  above  all  things  desirous  of  being  understood.  He 
spoke  a  strange  and  uncouth  Italian,  full  of  rough  northern 
idioms,  yet  the  earnestness  and  dignity  of  his  manner  ensiu'ed 
him  an  audience,  especially  with  two  such  men  as  those  who 
stood  before  him. 

"  Standing  in  a  new  world,"  he  said,  "  and  speaking  as  I 
speak,  to  men  of  another  language,  and  of  thoughts  and  habits 
distinct  from  mine,  I  see  beneath  the  tinsel  of  earthly  rank  and 
splendoiu:  and  a  luxury  of  life  and  of  beauty,  the  very  meaning 
of  which  is  unknown  to  me,  something  of  a  common  feeling, 
which  assures  me  that  the  voice  I  utter  will  not  be  entirely 
strange,  coming  as  it  does  from  the  common  Father.  I  see 
around  me  a  land  given  over  to  idolatry  and  sensual  crime,  as  if 
the  old  Pagans  were  retm-ned  again  to  earth  :  and  here  around 
me  I  see  the  symbols  of  the  Pagan  worship  and  of  the  Pagan 
sin,  and  I  hear  no  other  talk  than  that  which  would  have  be- 
fitted the  Pagan  revels  and  the  Pagan  darkness  which  overhung 
the  world  to  come.  Standing  on  the  brink  of  a  violent  death, 
and  able  to  utter  few  words  that  can  be  understood,  I  call,  in 
these  short  moments  which  are  given  me,  and  in  these  few  words 
which  I  have  at  command — I  call  upon  aU  who  will  listen  to 
me,  that  they  leave  those  things  which  are  behind,  with  all  the 
filthy  recollections  of  ages  steeped  in  sin,  and  that  they  press 
forward  towards  the  light — the  light  of  God  in  Jesus  Christ." 

He  stopped,  probably  for  want  of  words  to  clothe  his 
thoughts,  and  Inglesant  replied, — 

"  You  may  be  assiu-ed  from  the  events  of  last  night,  signore, 
that  you  are  in  no  danger  of  violent  death  in  this  house,  and 
that  every  means  wiU  be  taken  to  protect  you,  until  you  have 
been  found  guilty  of  some  crime.  You  must,  however,  know 
that  no  country  can  allow  its  customs  and  its  religion  to  be  out- 
raged by  strangers  and  aliens,  and  you  cannot  be  sm-prised  if 
such  conduct  is  resented  both  by  the  governors  of  the  country 
and  by  the  ignorant  populace,  though  these  act  fi:om  different 


316  JOHN  INGLESANT,  [CHAP.  XXVII. 

motives.  As  to  wliat  you  have  said  respecting  the  ornament? 
and  symbols  of  this  house,  and  of  the  converse  in  which  you 
have  found  us  engaged,  it  woidd  seem  that  to  a  wise  man  these 
things  might  serve  as  an  allegory,  or  at  least  as  an  image  and 
representation  of  human  life,  and  be,  therefore,  not  without 
their  uses." 

"  I  desire  no  representation  nor  image  of  a  past  world  of 
iniquity,"  said  the  stranger,  "  I  would  I  could  say  of  a  dead  life, 
but  the  whole  world  lieth  in  wickedness  until  this  day.  This 
is  why  I  travel  through  all  lands,  crying  to  all  men  that  they 
repent  and'  escape  the  most  righteous  judgment  of  God,  if  liaply 
there  be  yet  time.  These  are  those  latter  days  in  which  our 
Sa\dour  and  Kedeemer  Jesus  Christ,  the  Son  of  God,  predicted 
that  iniquity  '  should  be  increased  ; '  wherein,  instead  of  serving 
God,  all  serve  their  own  humours  and  affections,  being  rocked 
to  sleep  with  the  false  and  deceitful  lullaby  of  effeminate  plea- 
sures and  delights  of  the  flesh,  and  know  not  that  an  hf)iTible 
mischief  and  overthrow  is  awaiting  them,  that  the  pit  of  Hell 
yawns  beneath  them,  and  that  for  them  is  reserved  the  inevi- 
table rigoiu-  of  the  eternal  fire.  Is  it  a  time  for  chambering 
and  wantonness,  for  soft  raiment  and  dainty  living,  for  reading 
of  old  play-books  such  as  the  one  I  see  on  the  table,  for  building 
houses  of  cedar,  painted  with  vermilion,  and  decked  with  all 
the  loose  and  fantastic  devices  which  a  disordered  and  debauched 
intellect  could'  itself  conceive,  or  coidd  borrow  from  Pagan  tombs 
and  haunts  of  devils,  fidl  of  imcleanness  and  dead  sins  ?" 

"You  speak  too  harshly  of  these  things,"  said  Inglesant. 
"  I  see  nothing  in  them  but  the  instinct  of  humanity,  differing 
in  its  outward  aspect  in  different  ages,  but  alike  in  its  meaning 
and  audible  voice.  This  house  is  in  itself  a  representation  of  the 
world  of  fancy  and  reality  combined,  of  the  material  life  of  the 
animal  mingled  with  those  half-seen  and  fitful  glimpses  of  the 
unknown  life  upon  the  verge  of  which  we  stand.  This  little 
fellow  which  I  hold  in  my  hand,  speaks  to  me,  in  an  indistinct 
and  yet  forcible  voice,  of  that  common  sympathy — magical  and 
hidden  though  it  may  be — by  which  the  whole  creation  is  linked 
together,  and  in  which,  as  is  taught  in  many  an  allegory  and 
quaint  device  upon  these  walls,  tlie  Creator  of  us  all  has  a  kindly 
feeling  for  the  basest  and  most  inanimate.  My  imagination 
follows  hunanity  through  all  the  paths  by  which  it  has  reached 
the  present  moment,  and  the  more  memorials  I  can  gather  of 


CHAP.  XXVII.]  A  ROMANCE.  317 

its  devious  footsteps  the  more  enlarged  my  view  becomes  of 
what  its  trials,  its  struggles,  and  its  virtues  were.  All  things 
that  ever  delighted  it  were  in  themselves  the  good  bles.?ings  of 
God — the  painter's  and  the  player's  art — action,  apparel,  agility, 
music.  Without  these  life  would  be  a  desert ;  and  as  it  s'eems 
to  me,  these  things  softened  manners  so  as  to  allow  ReUgion  to 
be  heard,  Avho  otherwise  would  not  have  been  listened  to  in  a 
savage  world,  and  among  a  brutal  people  destitute  of  civility. 
As  I  trace  these  things  backward  for  centuries,  I  live  far  beyond 
my  natural  term,  and  my  mind  is  delighted  with  the  pleasures 
of  nations  who  were  dust  ages  before  I  was  born." 

"  I  am  not  concerned  to  dispute  the  vain  pleasures  of  the 
children  of  this  world,"  exclaimed  the  stranger  with  more  warmth 
than  he  had  hitherto  shown.  "Do  you  suppose  that  I  myself 
am  without  the  lusts  and  desires  of  life  1  Have  I  no  eyes  like 
other  men,  that  I  cannot  take  a  carnal  pleasure  ip  that  which 
is  cunningly  formed  by  the  enemy  to  please  the  eye  1  Am  not 
I  warmed  like  other  men  1  And  is  not  soft  clothing  and  dainty 
fare  pleasing  to  me  as  to  them  1  But  I  call  on  all  men  to  rise 
above  these  things,  which  are  transitory  and  visionary  as  a 
dream,  and  which  you  yourself  have  spoken  of  as  magical  and 
hidden,  of  which  only  fitful  glimpses  are  obtained.  You  are 
pleasing  yoiu-self  with  fond  and  idle  imaginations,  the  product 
of  delicate  living  and  mirestrained  fancies ;  but  in  this  the  net 
of  the  devil  is  about  your  feet,  and  before  you  are  aware  you 
will  find  yom'self  ensnared  for  ever.  These  things  are  slowly 
but  surely  poisoning  your  spiritual  life.  I  call  upon  you  to 
leave  these  delusions,  and  come  out  into  the  clear  atmosphere 
of  God's  truth ;  to  tread  the  life  of  painfid  self-denial,  leaving 
that  of  the  powerful  and  great  of  this  world,  and  following  a 
despised  Saviour,  who  knew  none  of  these  things,  and  spent  His 
time  not  in  kings'  houses  gorgeously  tricked  out,  but  knew  not 
where  to  lay  His  head.  You  speak  to  me  of  pleasures  of  the 
mind,  of  music,  of  the  painter's  art;  do  you  think  that  last 
night,  when  beaten,  crushed,  and  almost  breathless,  in  the  midst 
of  a  bloodthirsty  and  howling  crowd,  I  was  dimly  conscious  of 
help,  and  looking  up  I  saw  you  in  the  glare  of  the  lanterns,  in 
your  courtier's  dress  of  lace  and  silver,  calm,  beneficent,  power- 
ful for  good,  you  did  not  seem  to  my  weak  human  nature,  and 
my  low  needs  and  instincts,  beautiful  as  an  angel  of  light  ? 
Truly  you  did  ;  yet  I  tell  you,  speaking  by  a  nature  and  in  a 


318  JOHN  IN3JLESANT;  [CHAP.  XXVII. 

voice  that  is  more  unerring  than  mine,  that  to  the  divine 
vision,  of  us  two  at  that  moment  you  were  the  one  to  be  pitied, 
— you  were  the  outcast,  the  tortured  of  demons,  the  bound 
hand  and  foot,  whose  portion  is  in  this  life,  who,  if  this  fleeting 
hour  is  left  unheeded,  will  be  tormented  in  the  life  to  come." 

The  Itahan  turned  away  his  head  to  conceal  a  smile,  and 
even  to  Ingiesant,  who  was  much  better  able  to  understand  the 
man's  meaning,  tlus  result  of  his  interference  to  save  his  life 
appeared  somewhat  ludicrous.  The  Italian,  however,  probably 
thinking  that  Ingiesant  woidd  be  glad  to  be  relieved  from  his 
strange  visitor,  seemed  desirous  of  terminating  the  interview. 

"His  Grace  expects  me,"  he  said  to  Ingiesant,  "at  the 
Casa  di  Morte  this  morning,  and  it  is  near  the  time  for  him  to 
be  there,     I  will  therefore  take  my  leave." 

"  All !  the  Casa  di  Morte ;  yes,  he  will  expect  me  there 
also,"  said  Ingiesant,  with  some  sHght  appearance  of  reluct- 
ance.     "  I  will  follow  you  anon." 

He  moved  from  the  indolent  attitude  he  had  kept  till  this 
moment  before  the  sideboard,  and  exchanged  with  the  Itahan 
those  formal  gestures  of  leave-taking  and  politeness  in  which 
his  nation  were  precise.  When  the  Italian  was  gone  Ingiesant 
summoned  a  servant,  and  directed  him  to  provide  the  stranger 
with  an  apartment,  and  to  see  that  he  wanted  for  nothing. 
He  then  turned  to  the  fanatic,  and  requested  him  as  a  favour 
not  to  attempt  to  leave  the  palace  imtil  he  had  returned  from 
the  Duke.     The  stranger  hesitated,  but  finally  consented. 

"I  owe  you  my  hfe,"  he  said, — "a  life  I  value  not  at  a 
straw's  weight,  but  for  which  my  Master  may  perchance  have 
some  use  even  yet.  I  am  therefore  in  your  debt,  and  I  will 
give  my  word  to  remain  quiet  until  you  return;  but  this 
promise  only  extends  to  nightfall ;  should  you  be  prevented  by 
any  chance  from  retiu^ning  this  day,  I  am  free  from  my  parole." 

Ingiesant  bowed. 

"  I  would,"  continued  the  man,  looking  upon  his  companion 
with  a  softened  and  even  compassionate  regard,  "  I  would  I 
could  say  more.  I  hear  a  secret  voice,  which  tells  me  that 
you  are  even  now  walking  in  slippery  places,  and  that  your 
heart  is  not  at  ease.'* 

He  stopped,  and  seemed  to  seek  earnestly  for  some  phrases 
or  arguments  which  he  might  suppose  likely  to  influence  a 
courtier  placed  as  he  imagined  Ingiesant  to  be ;  but  before  he 


CHAP.  XXVII.]  A  ROIVMNCE.  319 

resumed,  the  latter  exc  ised  himself  on  the  ground  of  his  at- 
tendance on  the  Duke,  and,  promising  to  see  him  again  on  his 
retm-n,  left  the  room. 

Inglesant  found  a  carriage  waiting  to  convey  him  to  the 
"  Hosjiital  of  Death,"  as  the  monastic  house  adjoining  the 
pubHc  Campo  Santo  was  called.  The  religious  performance 
had  already  begun.  Passing  through  several  sombre  corridors 
and  across  a  courtyard,  he  was  ushered  into  the  Duke's  presence, 
who  sat,  surroimded  by  his  Court  and  by  the  principal  ecclesi- 
astics of  the  city,  in  an  open  balcony  or  loggia.  As  Inglesant 
entered  by  a  small  door  in  the  back  of  the  gallery  a  most  extra- 
ordinary sight  met  his  eyes.  Beyond  the  loggia  was  a  small 
yard  or  burial-ground,  and  beyond  this  the  Campo  Santo 
stretching  out  into  the  far  coimtry.  The  whole  of  the  yard 
immediately  before  the  spectators  was  thronged  by  a  multitude 
of  persons,  of  all  ages  and  ranks,  apparently  just  risen  from  the 
tomb.  Many  were  utterly  without  clothing,  others  were  attired 
as  kings,  bishops,  and  even  popes.  Their  attitudes  and  conduct 
corresponded  with  the  characters  in  which  they  appeared,  the 
ecclesiastics  collecting  in  calm  and  sedate  attitudes,  while  many 
of  the  rest,  among  whom  kings  and  great  men  were  not  wanting, 
appeared  in  an  extremity  of  anguish  and  fear.  Beyond  the 
sheltering  walls  which  enclosed  the  court  the  dazzling  heat 
brooded  over  the  Campo  Santo  to  the  distant  hiUs,  and  the 
funereal  trees  stood,  black  and  sombre,  against  the  glare  of  the 
yellow  sky.  At  the  moment  of  Iiiglesant's  entrance,  it  appeared 
that  something  had  taken  place  of  the  nature  of  an  excommuni- 
cation, and  the  ecclesiastics  in  the  gallery  were,  according  to 
custom,  casting  candles  and  flaming  torches,  which  the  crowd 
of  nude  figiures  below  were  struggling  and  fighting  to  obtain. 
A  wild  yet  solemn  strain  of  music,  that  came  apparently  from 
the  open  graves,  ascended  through  the  fitful  and  half-stifled 
cries. 

The  first  sight  that  struck  upon  Inglesant's  sense,  as  he 
entered  the  gallery  from  the  dark  corridors,  was  the  lurid  yellow 
light  beyond.  The  second  was  the  wild  confused  crowd  of 
leaping  and  struggling  fig-ures,  in  a  strange  and  ghastly  disarray, 
naked  or  decked  as  in  mockery  with  the  torn  and  disordered 
Bymbols  of  rank  and  wealth,  rising  as  from  the  tomb,  distracted 
and  terror-stricken  as  at  the  last  great  assize.  The  third  was 
tLe  figm-e  of  the  Duke  turning  to  him,  and  the  eyes  of  the 


320  JOHN  INGLESANT  j  [cHAP.  xxviL 

priests  and  clergy  fixed  upon  his  face.  The  words  that  the 
fanatic  had  uttered  had  fallen  upon  a  mind  prepared  to  receive 
them,  and  upon  a  conscience  already  awakened  to  acknowledge 
their  truth.  A  mysterious  conviction  laid  hold  upon  his  im- 
agination that  the  moment  had  arrived  in  which  he  was  bound 
to  declare  himself,  and  by  every  tie  which  the  past  had  knotted 
round  him  to  influence  the  Duke  to  jDursue  a  line  of  conduct 
from  which  his  conscience  and  his  better  judgment  revolted. 
On  the  one  hand,  a  half-aroused  and  uncertain  conscience,  on 
the  other,  circumstance,  habit,  interest,  inclination,  perplexed 
his  thoughts.  The  conflict  was  uneven,  the  result  hardly 
doubtfid  The  eyes  of  friends  and  enemies,  of  agents  of  the 
Holy  See,  of  coiurtiers  and  priests,  were  upon  him ;  the  inquir- 
ing glance  of  the  aged  Duke  seemed  to  penetrate  into  his  soul. 
He  advanced  to  the  ducal  chair,  the  solemn  music,  that 
streamed  up  as  from  the  grave,  wavered  and  faltered  as  if 
consciousness  and  idea  were  nearly  lost.  Something  of  the 
old  confusion  overpowered  his  senses,  the  figiu-es  that  siu-- 
rounded  him  became  shadowy  and  unreal,  and  the  power  of 
decision  seemed  no  longer  his  own. 

Out  of  the  haze  of  confused  imagery  and  distracting  thought 
which  surrounded  him,  he  heard  with  unspeakable  amazement 
the  Duke's  words, — 

"I  have  waited  yoiu-  coming,  Mr.  Inglesant,  impatiently, 
for  I  have  a  commission  to  entrust  you  with,  or  rather  my 
daughter,  the  Grand  Duchess,  has  written  urgently  to  me  from 
Florence  to  request  me  to  send  you  to  her  without  a  moment's 
delay.  Family  matters  relating  to  some  in  whom  she  takes  the 
greatest  interest,  and  who  are  well  known,  she  says,  to  yourself, 
are  the  causes  which  lead  to  this  request." 

Inglesant  was  too  bewildered  to  speak.  He  had  believed 
himself  quite  unknown  to  the  Grand  Duchess,  whttm  he  had 
never  seen,  but  as  he  had  passed  before  her  in  the  ducal  recep- 
tions at  Florence.  Who  couhl  these  be  in  whom  she  took  so 
great  an  interest,  and  who  were  known  to  him  ? 

But  the  Duke  went  on,  speaking  with  a  certain  melancholy 
in  his  tone. 

"  I  have  wished,  Mr.  Inglesant,"  he  said,  "  to  mark  in  some 
way  the  regard  I  have  conceived  for  you,  and  the  obligation 
under  which  I  conceive  myself  to  remain.  It  may  be  that,  in 
the  course  that  events  are  taking,  it  will  no  longer  in  a  few 


CHAP,  xxvil]  a  romance.  321 

weeks  be  in  my  power  to  bestow  favours  upon  any  man.  I 
desire,  therefore,  to  do  what  I  have  purposed  before  you  leave 
the  presence.  I  have  caused  the  necessary  deeds  to  be  prepared 
which  bestow  upon  you  a  small  fief  in  the  Apennines,  consisting 
of  some  farms  and  of  the  Villa-Castle  of  San  Giorgio,  where  I 
myself  in  former  days  have  passed  many  happy  hours."  He 
stopped,  and  in  a  moment  or  two  resumed  abruptly,  without 
finishing  the  sentence. 

"The  revenue  of  the  fief  is  not  large,  but  its  possession 
gives  the  title  of  Cavaliere  to  its  owner,  and  its  situation  and 
the  character  of  its  neighbouihood  make  it  a  desirable  and 
delightful  abode.  The  letters  of  naturahzation  which  are 
necessary  to  enable  you  to  hold  this  property  have  been  made 
out,  and  nothing  is  wanting  but  your  acceptance  of  the  gift. 
I  off'er  it  you  with  no  conditions  and  no  request  save  that,  as 
far  as  in  you  lies,  you  will  be  a  faithful  servant  to  the  Grand 
Duchess  ^'hen  I  am  gone." 

The  Duke  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then,  turning  slightly 
to  his  chaplain  he  said,  "The  reverend  fiithers  will  tell  you 
that  this  affair  has  not  been  decided  upon  without  their  know- 
ledge, and  that  it  has  their  full  approval." 

These  last  words  convinced  Inglesant  of  the  fact  that  had 
occurred.  Although  the  Duke  had  said  nothing  on  the  subject, 
he  felt  certain  that  the  deed  of  cession  had  been  signed,  and 
that  for  some  reason  or  other  he  himself  was  considered  by  the 
clerical  party  to  have  been  instrumental  in  obtaining  this  result, 
and  to  be  deserving  of  reward  accordingly.  He  had  never,  as 
we  have  seen,  spoken  to  the  Duke  concerning  the  succession, 
and  his  position  at  the  moment  was  certainly  a  peculiar  one. 
Nothing  was  expected  of  him  but  that  he  should  express  his 
grateful  thanks  for  the  Duke's  favour,  and  leave  the  presence. 
Surely,  at,th^t  moment,  no  law  of  heaven  or  earth  could  require 
him  to  break  through  the  observances  of  civility  and  usage,  to 
enter  upon  a  subject  upon  which  he  was  not  addressed,  and  to 
refuse  acts  of  favour  offered  to  him  with  every  grace  and  deli- 
cacy of  manner.  Whatever  might  be  the  cas'e  with  other  men, 
he  certainly  was  not  one  to  whom  such  a  course  was  possible. 
He  expressed  his  gratitude  with  all  the  grace  of  manner  of 
which  he  was  capable,  he  assured  the  Dnke  of  his  readiness  to 
start  immediately  for  Floience,  and  he  left  the  ducal  presence 
before  many  nunutes  had  passed  away. 

Y 


322  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [cHAP.  xxnii. 

He  R  und  before  long  that  all  his  conjectures  were  correct. 
The  Duk3  had  signed  the  deed  of  cession,  and  the  report  which 
was  sent  to  Rome  by  the  Papal  agents  stated  that,  in  the 
opinion  of  the  most  competent  judges,  this  result  was  due  to 
Inglesant's  influence.  Before  his  arrival  the  Duke  had  leaned 
strongly  towards  the  secular  and  anti-Papal  interest,  and  had 
even  encouraged  heretical  and  Protestant  emissaries.  "  Avoid- 
ing with  great  skill  all  positive  allusion  to  the  subject,"  the 
report  went  on  to  state,  "  II  Cavaliere  Inglesant  had  thrown 
all  his  influence  into  the  Catholic  and  religious  scale,  and  had 
by  the  loftiness  of  his  sentiment  and  the  attraction  of  his 
manner  entirely  won  over  the  vacillating  nature  of  the  Duke." 
Too  much  satisfaction,  the  Cardinal  of  Umbria  and  the  heads 
of  the  Church  in  that  city  assured  the  Papal  Court,  could  not 
be  expressed,  at  the  manner  in  which  the  agent  of  the  Society 
had  fulfilled  his  mission. 

Inglesant's  departure  from  Umbria  was  so  suddef  that  he 
had  no  opportunity  of  again  seeing  the  stranger  whom  he  had 
left  in  the  palace,  and  he  was  afterwards  at  some  trouble  in 
obtaining  any  infoi-mation  respecting  him.  As  for  as  could  be 
ascertained,  he  waited  in  the  palace,  according  to  his  promise, 
until  the  evening,  when,  finding  that  Inglesant  did  not  return, 
he  walked  quietly  forth,  no  man  hindering  him.  What  his 
subsequent  fate  was  is  involved  in  some  obscurity  ;  but  it  would 
appear  that,  having  publicly  insulted  the  Host  in  some  cathe- 
di-al  in  the  south  of  Italy,  he  was  arrested  by  the  Holy  Oflice, 
and  thrown  into  prison,  from  which  tbere  is  reason  to  believe 
he  never  emerged. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

Not  very  long  after  Inglesant  had  left  for  Umbria,  his  friend, 
Don  Agostino  di  Chigi,  suddenly  came  to  Rome.  The  Pope's 
health  was  rapidly  failing,  and  the  excitement  concerning  his 
successor  was  becoming  intense.  The  choice  was  generally  con- 
sidered to  lie  between  the  Cardinals  Barberini  and  di  Chigi, 
though  Cardinal  Sacchetti  was  spoken  of  by  gime,  probably 
however  merely  as  a  substitute,  should  both  the  other  parties 
fail  in  electing  their  candidate. 


CHAP,  xxvm.]  A  EOaiANCE.  323 

It  was  the  policy  of  the  Chigi  family  to  conduct  their 
matters  with  great  caution;  none  of  the  family,  with  the 
exception  of  the  Cardinal,  were  openly  in  Rome;  and  when 
Bon  Agostino  arrived  he  resided  in  one  of  the  deserted  villas 
hidden  among  vineyards  and  the  gardens  of  solitary  convents, 
which  covered  the  Palatine  and  the  Aventine  in  the  southern 
portion  of  Rome  within  the  walls.  He  remained  within  or 
with  the  Cardinal  during  the  day,  but  at  night  he  ventured 
out  into  the  streets,  and  visited  the  adherents  of  his  family  and 
tho,*e  who  were  working  to  secure  his  uncle's  elevation. 

One  night  the  fathers  of  the  Oratory  gave  a  concert  at 
which  one  of  the  best  voices  in  Rome  was  to  sing.  It  happened 
that  Don  Agostino  passed  the  gate  as  the  company  were  assem- 
bling, and  as  he  did  so  the  street  was  blocked  by  the  train  of 
some  great  personage  who  arrived  in  a  sedan  of  blue  velvet 
embroidered  with  silver,  accompanied  by  several  gentlemen  and 
servants.  Among  the  former,  Agostino  recognized  the  Cavaliere 
di  Guardino,  the  brother  of  Lauretta,  of  whose  acquaintance 
with  Inglesant  at  Florence  it  may  be  remembered  he  was  aware, 
and  with  him  another  man  whose  appearance  seemed  to  recall 
some  distant  reminiscence  to  his  mind.  He  could,  however, 
see  him  but  imperfectly  in  the  flickering  torchlight. 

Apart  from  his  desire  to  remain  unrecognized  in  Rome, 
Agostino  had  no  desire  to  associate  with  the  Cavaliere,  of 
whose  character  he  had  a  very  bad  opinion.  To  his  annoyance, 
therefore,  as  the  sedan  entered  the  courtyard,  the  two  persons 
he  had  noticed,  instead  of  following  their  patron,  turned  round, 
and  in  leaving  the  doorway  met  Agostino  face  to  face.  The 
Cavaliere  recognized  him  immediately,  and  appeared  to  grasp 
eagerly  the  opportunity  to  accost  him.  He  began  by  compli- 
menting him  on  the  near  prospect  of  his  uncle's  elevation  to 
the  Papacy,  professing  to  consider  the  chances  of  his  election 
very  good  indeed,  and  added  that  he  presumed  business  con- 
nected with  these  matters  had  brought  him  to  Rome.  To  this 
Agostino  replied  that,  so  far  as  he  knew,  his  uncle  had  no  ex- 
pectation of  such  an  honour  being  at  aU  likely  to  be  offered 
him,  and  that  private  affairs  of  his  own,  of  a  very  delicate 
nature, — of  a  kind  indeed  which  a  gentleman  of  the  Cavaliere's 
known  gallantry  could  well  understand, — had  trought  him  to 
Rome,  as  indeed  he  might  see  from  the  secrecy  he  maintained, 
and  by  his  not  being  present  at  any  of  the  entertainments 


324  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [oHAP.  xxviii. 

which  were  going  forward.  He  then  inquired  in  his  tnrn  why 
the  Cfivaliere  had  not  entered  the  college.  The  other  made 
some  evasive  answer,  but  it  appeared  to  Agostino  that  both 
the  Oavaliere  and  his  companion  were  not  on  the  most  familiar 
terms  with  the  nobleman  they  had  accompanied,  although  it 
might  suit  their  purpose  to  appear  in  his  train.  Guardino 
indeed  changed  the  subject  hastily,  and  spoke  of  Inglesant, 
praising  him  highly.  He  inquired  whether  the  Cardinal  di 
Chigi  was  acquainted  with  him,  and  whether  it  was  likely  that 
either  as  an  attendant  upon  him  or  upon  Cardinal  Rinuccini, 
Inglesant  would  be  admitted  into  the  conclave. 

Don  Agostino  replied  vaguely  that  Inglesant  was  then  at 
XJmbria,  and  that  he  could  offer  no  opinion  as  to  the  probability 
of  the  latter  part  of  his  inquiry. 

He  thought  that  he  could  see  from  the  expression  on  the 
other's  face  that  the  Cavaliere  thought  that  he  was  deceiving 
him,  and  that  he  jumped  at  once  to  the  conclusion  that,  as  the 
attendant  of  one  or  other  of  the  Cardinals,  Inglesant  would  ba 
present  at  the  conclave. 

Guardino  went  on  to  speak  of  Inglesant's  character,  regret- 
ting the  craze  of  mind,  as  he  called  it,  which  his  ill-health  had 
produced,  and  which  rendered  him,  a^  he  Faid,  unfit  for  business 
or  for  taking  his  part  in  the  affairs  of  life.  He  went  on  to 
speak  with  unconcealed  contempt  of  Inglesant's  religious  ideas 
and  scruples,  and  of  his  association  with  Molinos ;  intimating, 
however,  his  opinion  that  it  would  not  be  impossible  to  over- 
come tiiese  scruples,  could  a  suitable  temptation  be  found. 
These  fancies  once  removed,  he  continued,  Inglesant's  value  as 
a  trusted  and  secret  agent  would  be  greatly  increased. 

He  seemed  to  be  talking  abstractedly  and  as  a  perfectly 
disinterested  person,  who  was  discussing  an  interesting  topic  of 
morals  or  mental  ])eculiarity. 

Agostino  couhl  not  understand  his  drift.  He  answered  him 
that  the  Jesuits  did  not  need  unscru])ulous  bravoea  If  they 
did,  they  could  be  found  at  every  street  corner  by  the  score. 
He  added  that  he  imagined  that  the  services  which  Inglesant 
had  already  performed,  and  might  perform  again,  were  of  a 
special  and  delicate  character,  for  which  his  temperament  and 
habit  of  mind,  which  were  chiefly  the  result  of  the  Society's 
training,  especially  fitted  him. 

They  had  by  this  time  reached  the  Corso,  and  Agostino 


CHAP.  XXVIIL]  A  ROMANCK  325 

took  the  opportunity  of  parting  with  his  companions,  excusing 
himself  on  the  ground  of  his  pretended  assignation. 

He  was  no  sooner  gone  than  the  Cavaliere,  according  to  the 
narrative  which  was  afterwards  rehited  by  Malvolti,  began  to 
explain  more  clearly  than  he  had  hitherto  done  what  his 
expectations  and  intentions  were.  He  was  forced  to  confide 
in  Malvolti  more  than  he  otherwise  would  have  done,  to  pre- 
vent his  ridding  himself  of  Inglesaut's  presence  by  violent 
means. 

When  the  Italian  first  saw  Inglesant,  whom  he  had  never 
met  in  England,  in  tlie  theatre  in  Florence,  he  was  startled  and 
terrified  by  his  close  resemblance  to  his  murdered  brother ;  and 
his  first  thought  was  that  his  victim  had  returned  to  earth,  and, 
invisible  to  others,  was  permitted  to  avenge  himself  upon  his 
murderer  by  haunting  and  terrifying  his  paths.  When  he 
discovered,  however,  that  the  Cavaliere  not  only  saw  the 
appearance  which  had  so  alarmed  him,  but  could  tell  him  who 
Inglesant  was,  and  to  a  certain  extent  what  the  motives  were 
which  had  brought  him  to  Italy,  his  superstitious  fears  gave 
place  to  more  material  apprehensions  and  expedients.  He  at 
once  resolved  to  assassinate  Inglesant  on  leaving  the  theatre,  in 
the  first  street  through  which  he  might  pass — a  purpose  which 
he  might  easily  have  accomplished  during  Inglesant's  careless 
and  unguarded  wanderings  round  the  house  of  Lauretta's  fiither 
that  night.  From  this  intention  he  was  with  difiiculty  diverted 
by  the  reasoning  of  the  Cavaliere,  who  represented  to  him  the 
rashness  of  such  an  action,  protected  as  Inglesant  was  by  the 
most  powerful  of  Societies,  which  would  not  fail  to  punish  any 
act  which  deprived  it  of  a  useful  agent ;  the  unnecessary  char- 
acter of  the  attempt,  Inglesant  being  at  present  in  complete 
ignorance  that  his  enemy  was  near  him  ;  and  above  all,  the 
folly  of  destroying  a  person  who  might  otherwise  be  made  the 
medium  of  great  personal  profit  and  advantage.  He  explained 
to  Malvolti  Inglesant's  connection  with  the  Chigi  family,  and 
the  position  of  influence  he  would  occupy  should  the  Cardinal 
be  (fleeted  to  the  Popedom ;  finally,  he  went  so  far  as  to  hint 
at  the  possibility  of  an  alliance  between  Malvolti  and  his  sister, 
should  Inglesant  remain  uninjured, 

Malvolti  had  only  arrived  in  Florence  on  the  previous  day, 
and  the  Cavaliere  met  him  accidentally  in  the  theatre;  but 
Guardino's  plans  with  relation  to  Inglesant  and  his  sister  were 


326  JOHN  INGLESANl ,  [chap,  xx^  IIL 

already  so  far  matured,  that  he  had  arrani:jed  tor  the  abrnp* 
departure  of  his  ftither  aud  Lauretta  from  Florence.  His  oltjeot 
was  to  keep  in  his  own  hands  a  powerful  magnet  of  attraction, 
which  would  bind,  as  he  supposed,  Inglesant  to  iiis  interests ; 
but  he  was  by  no  means  desirous  that  he  should  marry  his 
sister  immediately,  if  at  all.  The  election  for  the  Papacy  was 
of  very  uncertain  issue,  and  if  the  di  Chigi  friction  failed,  Ingle- 
sant's  alliance  would  be  of  little  value.  He  had  two  strings 
to  his  bow.  .Malvolti,  between  whom  and  the  Cavaliere  asso- 
ciation in  vice  and  even  crime  had  riveted  mojuy  _a  bond: of 
interest  and  dependence,  was  closely  connected  with  the  Bar- 
berini  faction,  as  an  unscrupulous  and  useful  tool.  "Should 
the  Cardinal  Barberini  be  elected  Pope,  or  should  Cardinal 
Sacchetti,  who  was  in  his  interest,  be  chosen,  his  own  connec- 
tion with  Malvolti  might  be  of  great  value  to  the  Cavaliere, 
and  the  greater  service  the  latter  could  render  to  the  Barberini 
faction  in  the  approaching  crisis  the  better.  The  weak  point 
of  his  position  on  this  side  was  the  character  of  Malvolti,  and 
the  subordinate  position  he  occupied  among  the  adherents  of 
the  Barberini.  On  the  other  hand,  if  Cardinal  Chigi  were  the 
future  Pontiff,  the  prospects  of  any  one  connected  with  Ingle- 
sant would  be  most  brilliant,  as  the  latter,  from  his  connection 
with  the  Jesuits,  and  as  the  favourite  of  the  Pope's  nephew, 
would  at  once  become  one  of  the  most  powerful  men  in  Italy. 
The  weak  point  on  this  side  was  that  his  hold  on  Inglesant  was 
very  slight,  and  that,  even  supposing  it  to  be  strengthened  by 
marriage  with  Lauretta,  Inglesant's  character  and  temper  were 
buch  as  would  probably  make  him  useless  and  impracticable  in 
the  attempt  to  secure  the  glittering  and  often  illicit  advantages 
which  would  be  within  his  reach.  Between  this  perplexing 
choice  the  only  wise  course  appeared  to  be  to  temporize  with 
both  parties,  and  to  attempt,  in  the  meantime,  to  secure  an 
influence  with  either.  The  fortunes  both  of  the  Cavaliere  and 
of  Malvolti  were  at  this  moment  pretty  nearly  desperate,  and 
their  means  of  influencing  any  one  very  small ;  indeed,  having 
wasted  what  had  once  been  considerable  wealth  and  talent, 
there  remained  nothing  to  the  Cavaliere  but  his  sister,  and  of 
that  last  possession  he  was  prepared  to  make  unscrupulous  use. 
It  would  be  of  small  advantage  to  him  to  give  his  sister's  hand 
to  Inglesant  unless  he  could  first,  by  her  means,  corrupt  and 
debase  his  conscience  an^i  that  lofty  standard  of  conduct  which 


CHAP.  XXVIII.]  A  ROMANCE.  327 

he  appeared,  to  the  Cavaliere  at  least,  unswervingly  to  follow; 
and  the  Italian  devil  at  his  side  suggested  a  rnean.s  to  tliis  end 
as  wild  in  conception  as  the  result  proved  it  impotent  and  badly- 
planned. 

This  Italian  devil  was  not  Malvolti,  though  that  person  was 
one  of  his  most  successful  followers  and  imitators.  When  the 
inspired  writer  has  described  the  princes  and  angels  which  rule 
the  different  nations  of  the  earth,  he  does  not  go  on  to  enumer- 
ate the  distinct  powers  of  evil  which,  in  different  countries, 
pursue  their  divers  malefic  courses ;  yet  it  would  seem  that 
those  existences  are  no  less  real  than  the  others.  That  the 
character  of  the  inhabitants  of  any  country  has  much  to  do  in 
forming  a  distinct  devil  for  that  country  no  man  can  doubt ;  or 
that  in  consequence  the  temptations  which  beset  mankind  in 
certain  countries  are  of  a  distinct  and  peculiar  kind.  This  fact 
is  sometimes  of  considerable  advantage  to  the  object  of  the 
tempter's  art,  for  if,  acting  upon  his  knowledge  of  the  character 
of  any  people,  this  merely  local  devil  lays  snares  in  the  path  of 
a  stranger,  it  is  not  impossible  that  the  bait  may  fail.  This 
was  very  much  what  happened  to  John  Inglesant.  Of  the  sins 
which  were  really  his  temptations  the  Cavaliere  knew  nothing ; 
but  he  could  conceive  of  certain  acts  which  he  concluded  Ingle- 
sant would  consider  to  be  sins.  Tliese  acts  were  of  a  gross  and 
sensual  nature ;  for  the  Italian  devil,  born  of  the  fleshly  lusts 
of  the  people,  was  unable  to  form  temptations  for  the  higher 
natures,  and'  of  course  his  pupils  were  equally  impotent.  The 
result  was  singular.  Acting  upon  the-  design  of  ruining  Ingle- 
sant's  moral  sense,  of  debasing  the  ideal  of  conduct  at  which 
he  aimed,  and  of  shattering  and  defiling  what  the  Cavaliere 
considered  the  fantastic  purity  of  his  conscience,  he  formed 
a  scheme  which  had  the  eflect  of  removing  Inglesant  from  a 
place  where  he  was  under  the  strongest  temptation  and  in 
the  greatest  danger  of  violating  his  conscience,  and  of  placing 
him  in  circumstances  of  trial  which,  though  dangerous,  he  was 
still,  from  the  peculiarity  of  his  character,  much  better  able  to 
resist. 

A  marriage  connection  with  Inglesant  would  at  this  juncture 
be  of  little  avail ;  but  a  wild  and  illicit  passion,  which  would 
involve  him  in  a  course  of  licentious-  and  confused  action,  in 
which  the  barriers  of  morality  and  the  scruples  of  conscience 
would  be  alike  annihilated,  and  the  whole  previous  nature  of  the 


328  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap.  xxix. 

victim  of  lawless  desire  altered,  would,  if  any  agent  could  pro- 
duce so  great  a  change,  transform  Inglesant  into  the  worldly- 
minded  and  unscrupulous  accomplice  that  the  Cavaliere  wished 
him  to  become.  How  great  the  fall  would  be  he  could  of  course 
in  no  way  estimate;  but  he  had  sufficient  insight  to  perceive  that 
the  shock  of  it  would  probably  be  sufficient  (acting  upon  a  con- 
sciousness so  refined  and  delicate  as  that  of  Inglesant)  to  render 
recovery,  if  ever  attained,  very  difficult  and  remote. 

Upon  this  wild  scheme  he  acted.  He  had  removed  his 
sister  when  he  had  thought  that  Inglesant  had  been  suffi- 
ciently ensnared  to  make  his  after  course  certain  and  precipitate. 
Inglesant's  character,  which  was  so  very  imperfectly  known  to 
the  Cavaliere,  and  circumstances,  such  as  his  confinement  in  the 
pest-house,  had  delayed  the  consummation  of  the  plot.  But 
the  Cavaliere  conceived  that  the  time  had  now  arrived  for  its 
completion.  He  brought  his  sister  back  to  Florence,  and 
placed  her  with  the  Grand  Duchess,  in  some  subordinate  situa- 
tion which  his  family  and  his  sister's  character  enabled  him  to 
obtain.  Having  had  some  previous  knowledge  of  her,  the 
Duchess  soon  became  attached  to  Lauretta,  and  obtained  her 
confidence.  From  her  she  learnt  Inglesant's  story  and  charac- 
ter, and  wished  to  see  him  at  the  Court.  While  the  two  ladies 
were  planning  schemes  for  future  pleasure,  the  Cavaliere  suddenly 
appeared  at  Florence,  and  informed  his  sister  that' he  had  con 
eluded,  with  the  approbation  of  his  father,  a  marriage  contract' 
between  herself  and  Malvolti. 

Terrified  by  this  threatened  connection  T^ith  a  man  whose 
person  she  loathed  and  whose  character  she  detested,  Lauretta 
flew  to  the  Duchess  and  entreated  her  to  send  at  once  for  Ingle- 
sant, who,  they  were  both  aware,  was  at  that  moment  with  tlie 
Duke  of  Umbria,  the  Grand  Duchess's  aged  father.  With  the 
result  we  are  acquainted. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

On  Jiis  d,rrival  at  Florence  Inglesant  found  himself  at  onct  feted 
and  caressed,  though  the  nature  of  his  mission  to  Umbria, 
antagonistic  as  his  supposed  influence  had  been  to  the  interests 
of  the  ducal  party,  might  naturally  have  procm-ed  for  him  a 


CHAP.  XXIX.]  A  ROMANCK  329 

far  different  reception.  Trained  as  he  had  been  in  courts,  the 
caprices  of  princes'  favour  did  not  seem  strange  to  him,  and 
were  taken  at  their  true  wortli.  Unsuspicious,  therefore,  of 
any  special  danger,  relieved  from  the  intolerable  strain  which 
the  position  at  Umbria  had  exerted  upon  his  conscience,  delighted 
with  the  society  of  his  recovered  mistress,  and  flattered  by  the 
attentions  of  the  Duchess  and  of  the  whole  Court,  he  gave  him- 
self up  freely  to  the  enjoyments  of  the  hour.  Plentifully  supplied 
with  money  from  his  own  resources,  from  the  kindness  of  the 
aged  Duke,  and  from  the  subsidies  of  his  patrons  at  Rome,  he 
engaged  freely  in  the  parties  formed  for  the  performance  of 
masques  and  interludes,  in  which  the  Court  delighted,  and 
became  conspicuous  for  the  excellence  of  his  acting  and  in- 
vention. 

But  it  was  not  the  pui-pose  of  the  demon  that  followed  on 
his  footsteps  to  give .  him  longer  repose  than  might  lull  his 
senses,  and  weaken  his  powers  of  resisting  evil.  Day  after  day 
devoted  to  pleasure  paved  the  way  for  the  final  catastrophe, 
until  the  night  arrived  when  the  plot  was  fully  ripe.  Supper 
was  over,  and  the  Court  sat  down  again  to  play.  Inglesant 
remembered  afterwards,  though  at  the  time  it  did  not  attract 
his  attention,  that  several  gentlemen,  all  of  them  friends  of  Guar- 
dino,  paid  him  particular  attention,  and  insisted  on  drinking 
with  him,  calling  for  different  kinds  of  wine,  and  recommending 
them  to  his  notice.  The  saloons  were  crowded  and  very  hot, 
and  when  Inglesant  left  the  supper  room  and  came  into  the 
brilliant  marble  hall  lighted  with  great  lustres,  where  the  Court 
was  at  play,  he  was  more  excited  than  was  his  wont.  The 
Court  was  gathered  at  different  tables — a  very  large  one  in  the 
centre  of  the  hall,  and  other  smaller  ones  around.  The  brilliant 
dresses,  the  jewels,  the  beautiful  women,  the  reflections  in  the 
numberless  mirrors,  made  a  dazzling  and  mystifying  impression 
on  his  brain.  The  play  was  very  high,  and  at  the  table  to 
which  Inglesant  sat  down  especially  so.  He  lost  heavily,  and 
this  did  not  tend  to  calm  his  nerves ;  he  doubled  his  stake, 
with  all  the  money  he  had  with  him,  and  lost  again.  As  he 
rose  from  the  table  a  page  touched  his  elbow  and  handed  him 
a  small  note  carefully  sealed  and  delicately  perfumed.  It  was 
addressed  to  him  by  his  new  title,  "II  Cavaliere  di  San  Giorgio," 
and  scaicely  knowing  what  he  did,  he  opened  it.  It  was  from 
Lauretta. 


330  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  {cHAP.  XXIX. 

"  Cavaliere, 

"Will  you  come  to  me  in  the  Duchess's  lodgings 
before  the  Court  rises  from  play?     I  need  your  help.         L." 

Inglesant  turned  to  look  for  the  boy,  who,  he  expected,  was 
waiting  for  him.  He  was  not  far  off,  and  Inglesant  followed 
him  without  a  word.  They  passed  through  many  corridors  and 
rooms  richly  furnished  until  they  reached  the  lodgings  of  the 
Grand  Duchess.  The  night  was  sultry,  and  through  the  open 
windows  above  the  gardens  the  strange  odours  that  are  born  of 
darkness  and  of  night  entered  the  palace.  In  the  dark  arcades 
the  nightingales  were  singing,  preferring  gloom  and  mystery  to 
the  light  iu  which  all  other  creatures  rejoice ;  and  in  the  still- 
ness the  murmur  of  brooks  and  flie  splash  of  the  fountains 
oppressed  the  air  with  an  unearthly  and  unaccustomed  sound. 
Around  the  casements  festoons  of  harmless  and  familiar  flowers 
and  leaves  assumed  wild  and  repulsive  shapes,  as  if  transformed 
into  malicious  demons  who  made  men  their  sport.  Inglesant 
thought  involuntarily  of  those  plants  that  are  at  enmity  with 
man,  which  are  used  for  enchantments  and  for  poisoning,  and 
whose  very  scent  is  death ;  such  saturnine  and  fatal  flowers 
seemed  more  at  home  in  the  lovely  Italian  night  than  the 
innocent  plants  which  witness  to  lovers'  vows,  and  upon  which 
divines  moralize  and  preach.  The  rooms  of  the  Duchess  were 
full  of  perfume  of  the  kind  that  enervates  and  lulls  the  sense. 
It  seemed  to  Inglesant  as  though  he  were  treading  the  intricate 
pathways  of  a  dream,  careless  as  to  what  befell  him,  yet  with  a 
passionate  longing  which  urged  him  forward,  heedless  of  a 
restraining  voice  which  he  was  even  then  half-conscious  that  at 
other  times  he  should  have  heard.  The  part  of  the  palace 
where  he  was  seemed  deserted,  and  the  page  led  him  through 
more  than  one  anteroom  without  meeting  any  one,  until  they 
reached  a  curtained  door,  which  the  boy  opened,  and  directed 
Inglesant  to  enter.  He  did  so,  and  found  himself  at  once  iu 
the  presence  of  Lauretta,  who  was  lying  upon  a  low  seat  at  the 
open  window.  The  room  was  lighted  by  several  small  lamps 
in  different  positions,  giving  an  ample,  yet  at  the  same  time  a 
soft  and  dreamy  light.  Lauretta  w^as  carelessly  dressed,  yet,  in 
the  soft  light,  and  in  her  negligent  attitude,  there  was  some- 
thing that  made  her  beauty  the  more  attractive,  and  her  manner 
to  Inglesant  was  unrestrained  and  clinging.    Her  growing  afieo* 


CHAP.  XXIX.]  A  ROMANCK  331 

tion,  the  urgency  of  her  need,  and  the  circumstance:)  of  the 
hour,  caused  her  innocently  to  speak  and  act  in  a  way  the  most 
fitted  to  promote  her  brother's  atrocious  purposes. 

"  Cavaliere,"  she  said,  "  I  have  sent  for  you  because  I  have 
no  friend  but  you.  I  have  sent  for  you  to  help  me  against  my 
own  family — my  own  brother — my  lather  even,  whom  I  love — 
whom  I  loved — more  thfai  all  the  world  beside.  They  are 
determined  to  marry  me  to  a  man  whom  I  hate ;  to  the  man 
whom  you  hate ;  to  that  Signore  Malvolti,  who,  though  they 
deny  it,  is,  I  am  fully  persuaded,  the  murderer  of  your  brother ; 
to  that  wretch  whom  Italy  even  refuses  to  receive ;  who,  but 
for  his  useful  crimes,  would  be  condemned  to  a  death  of  torment. 
My  brother  tells  me  that  he  will  be  here  to-morrow  to  see  me 
and  demand  my  consent.  He  brings  an  authorization  from  my 
father,  and  insists  upon  the  contract  being  made  without  delay. 
I  would  die  rather  than  submit  to  such  a  fate,  but  it  is  not 
necessary  to  die.  I  must,  however,  leave  the  Court  and  escape 
from  my  brother's  wardship.  If  I  can  reach  some  place  of 
safety,  where  I  can  gain  time  to  see  my  father,  I  am  certain 
that  I  shall  be  able  to  move  him.  It  cannot  be  that  he  will 
condemn  me  to  such  a  fate, — me  !  the  pride  and  pleasure  of  his 
life.  He  must  be  deceived  and  misled  by  some  of  these  wicked 
intrigues  and  manoeuvres  which  ruin  the  happiness  and  peace 
of  men." 

"  I  am  wholly  yours,"  said  Inglesant ;  "  whatever  you  desire 
shall  be  done.     Have  you  spoken  to  the  Duchess?" 

"The  Duchess  advises  me  to  fly,"  replied  Lauretta;  "she 
says  the  Duke  will  not  interfere  between  a  father  and  his  child ; 
especially  now,  when  all  Italy  hangs  in  suspense  concerning  the 
Papacy,  and  men  are  careful  whom  they  ofTend.  She  advises 
me  to  go  to  the  convent  of  St.  Catherine  of  Pistoia,  where  I 
lodged  not  many  years  ago  while  my  father  was  in  France. 
The  Abbess  is  a  cousin  of  my  father's  ;  she  is  a  kind  woman, 
and  I  can  persuade  her  to  keep  me  for  a  short  time  at  least.  I 
wish  to  go  to-night.     Will  you  take  me  *? " 

She  had  never  looked  so  lovely  in  Inglesant's  eyes  as  she 
did  while  she  spoke.  The  pleading  look  of  her  dark  eyes,  and 
the  excitement  of  her  manner,  usually  so  reserved  and  calm, 
added  charms  to  her  person  of  which  he  had  previously  been 
unconscious.  In  that  country  of  formal  restraint  and  suspicion, 
of  hurried,  furtive  interviews,  a  zest  was  given  to  accidental 


332  JOHN  INGLESANT,  [CHAP.  xxix. 

freedom  of  iiiterconnBe  such  as  the  more  unrestricted  life  of 
France  and  England  knew  little  ofl  In  spite  of  a  suspicion  of 
treachery,  which  in  that  country  was  never  absent,  Inglesant 
felt  his  frame  aglow  with  devotion  to  this  lovely  creature,  who 
thus  threw  herself  unreservedly  into  his  keeping.  He  threw 
himself  upon  a  cushion  at  Lauretta's  feet,  and  encircled  her 
with  his  arms.  She  spoke  of  youth  and  life  and  pleasure, — of 
youth  that  was  passing  away  so  rapidly ;  of  life  that  had  been 
to  her  dreary  and  dull  enough  ;  of  her  jealously-guarded  Italian 
home,  of  her  convent  cell,  of  her  weak  and  helpless  father,  of 
her  tyrannous  brother  ;  of  pleasure,  of  which  she  had  dreamed 
as  a  girl,  but  which  seemed  to  fly  before  her  as  she  advanced ; 
finally  of  himself,  whom,  from  the  first  day  she  had  seen  him 
in  her  father's  room,  she  had  loved,  whom  absence  had  only 
endeared,  her  first  and  only  friend. 

He  spoke  of  love,  of  protection,  of  help  and  succour  for  the 
rest  of  life ;  of  happy  days  to  come  at  San  Giorgio,  when  all 
these  troubles  should  have  passed  away,  when  at  last  he  should 
escape  from  intrigue  and  State  policy,  and  they  could  make 
their  home  as  joyous  and  free  from  care  as  that  house  of  a 
Cardinal,  on  a  little  hilly  bank  near  Veletri,  whence  you  can 
see  the  sea,  and  which  is  called  Monte  Joiosa.  He  spoke  of  an 
Idyllic  dream  which  could  not  long  have  satisfied  either  of 
them, — himself  especially,  but  which  pleased  them  at  that 
moment,  with  an  innocent  and  delicate  fancy  which  calmed 
and  purified  their  excited  thoughts.  Then,  as  the  hour  passed 
by,  he  rose  from  her  embrace,  promising  to  provide  horses,  and 
when  the  palace  was  quiet,  to  meet  her  at  the  end  of  one  of  the 
long  avenues  that  crossed  the  park ;  for  the  Court  was  not  at 
the  Pitti  Palace,  but  at  the  Poggio  Imperiale  without  the  walls 
of  Florence. 

The  soft  night  air  played  upon  Inglesant's  forehead  a?  he 
led  his  horses  to  the  end  of  a  long  avenue,  and  waited  for  the 
lady  to  join  him.  He  did  not  wait  long;  she  came  gliding  })ast 
the  fountains,  by  the  long  rows  of  orange  and  cypress  hedges, 
and  across  the  streaks  of  moonlight  among  the  trees  that  closed 
the  gardens  and  the  park.  As  he  lifted  her  into  the  saddle, 
her  glance  was  partly  scared  and  partly  trustful :  he  felt  as 
though  he  were  moving  in  a  delicious  dream. 

As  they  rode  out  of  the  ]iark  she  told  him  that  she  had 
received  a  message  from  the  Duchess,  recommending  her  to  stop 


CHAP.  XXIX.]  A  RO^IANCK  333 

at  a  pavilion  on  the  borders  of  the  great  chase,  beyond  the 
Achaiano  Palace,  half-way  to  Pistoia,  which  the  Duchess  used 
sometimes  when  the  Duke  was  diverting  himself  in  the  chase. 
She  had  sent  a  messenger  to  prepare  the  people  who  kept  the 
pavilion  for  their  coming.  There  was  something  strange  in  this 
message',  Lauretta  said,  which  was  brought,  not  by  one  of  the 
Duchess's  usual  pages,  but  by  a  boy  who  had  not  been  long  at 
the  palace,  and  who  scarcely  waited  to  give  his  message,  so 
great  was  his  hmTy.  It  seemed  of  little  moment  to  Inglesant 
who  brought  the  message,  or  whether  any  treachery  were  at 
w^ork  or  no ;  he  was  only  conscious  of  a  delicious  sense  of  coming 
pleasure  which  made  him  reckless  of  all  beside.  Along  the  first 
few  miles  of  their  road  they  passed  nothing  but  the  long  lines 
of  elms,  planted  between  ridges  of  corn,  upon  which  the  vines 
were  climbing  in  already  luxiuriant  wreaths.  Presently,  how- 
ever, after  they  had  passed  the  Achaiano  Palace,  the  country 
changed,  and  they  came  within  the  confines  of  the  Duke's  chase, 
thirty  miles  in  compass,  planted  with  cork  trees  and  ilex,  with 
underwood  of  mjTtle  thickets.  Through  these  shades,  lovely 
indeed  by  day,  but  weird  and  unhealthy  by  night,  they  rode 
silently,  startled  every  now  and  then  by  strange  sounds  that 
issued  from  the  forest  depths.  The  ground  was  fenny  and 
uneven,  and  moist  exhalations  rose  out  of  the  soil  and  floated 
across  the  path. 

"  The  Duchess  never  sleeps  at  the  pavilion,"  said  Lauretta 
at  last  suddenly ;  "  it  is  dangerous  to  sleep  in  the  forest." 

"  It  will  be  as  well  to  stop  an  horn-  or  so,  however,"  said 
Inglesant,  "  else  we  shall  be  at  Pistoia  before  they  open  the 


Presently,  in  the  brilliant  moonlight,  they  saw  the  pointed 
roofs  of  the  pavilion  on  a  little  rising-ground,  wHh  the  forest 
tre  es  comin  up  closely  to  the  walls.  The  moon  \\as  now  high 
in  the  heavens,  and  it  was  as  light  as  day.  The  upper  windows 
of  the  pavilion  were  open,  and  within  it  lights  were  biuning. 
The  door  was  opened  to  them  before  they  knocked,  and  the 
keeper  of  the  pavilion  came  to  meet  them,  accompanied  by  a 
boy  who  took  the  horses.  The  man  showed  no  surprise  at  their 
coming,  only  saying  some  servants  of  the  Duchess  had  been  there 
a  few  hours  previously,  and  had  prepared  a  repast  in  the  din- 
ing-room, forewarning  him  that  he  should  expect  visitors.  He 
accompanied  them  upstairs,  ior  they  saw  nothing  of  the  other 


334  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [cHAf .  xxiX. 

inmates  of  the  place.  The  rooms  were  arranged  with  a  sort  of 
rustic  luxury,  and  were  evidently  intended  for  repose  during  the 
heat  of  the  day.  A  plentiful  and  delicate  collation  was  spread 
on  one  of  the  tables,  with  abundance  of  fruit  and  wine.  The 
place  looked  like  the  magic  creation  of  an  enchanter's  wand, 
raised  for  purposes  of  evil  from  the  unhealthy  marsh,  and  ready 
to  sink  again,  when  that  malefic  purpose  was  fulfilled,  into  the 
weird  depths  from  which  it  rose 

Tlie  old  man  showed  them  the  other  rooms  of  the  apartment 
and  left  them.     At  the  door  he  turned  back  and  said, — 

"  I  should  not  advise  the  lady  to  sleep  here ;  the  miasma 
from  the  forest  is  very  fatal  to  such  as  are  not  used  to  it." 

Inglesant  looked  at  him,  but  could  not  perceive  that  he 
intended  his  words  to  have  any  deeper  meaning  than  the  obvious 
one.     He  said, — 

"We  shall  stay  only  an  hour  or  two;  let  the  horses  be 
ready  to  go  on." 

The  naan  left  them,  and  they  sat  down  at  the  table. 
The  repast  was  served  in  Faience  ware  of  a  strange  delicate 
blue,  and  consisted  of  most  of  the  delicacies  of  the  season,  with 
a  profusion  of  wine. 

*'  This  was  not  ordered  by  the  Duchess,"  said  Lauretta. 
"We  are  safe  from  poison,  Mignone,"  said  Inglesant ;  "to 
destroy  you  as  well  as  me  would  defeat  all  purposes.     Not  that 
I  beUeve  the  Cavaliere  would  wish  me  dead.     He  rather  hopes 
that  I  may  be  of  use  to  him.     Let  us  drink  to  him." 

And  he  filled  a  glass  for  Lauretta  of  the  Montepulciano,  the 
"  King  of  Wines,"  and  drank  himself. 

Lauretta  was  evidently  frightened,  yet  she  followed  his 
example  and  drank.  The  night  air  was  heavy  and  close,  not 
a  breath  of  wind  stirred  the  lights,  though  every  window  w^as 
thrown  open,  and  the  shutters  that  closed  the  loggia  outside 
were  drawn  back.  In  the  brilliant  moonlight  every  leaf  of  the 
great  forest  shone  with  an  imnatural  distinctness,  which,  set  in 
a  perfect  silence,  became  terrible  to  see.  The  sylvan  arcades 
seemed  like  a  painted  scene-piece  upon  a  Satanic  stage  super- 
naturally  alight  to  fm-ther  deeds  of  sin,  and  silent  and  unpeopled, 
lest  the  wrong  should  be  interrupted  or  checked.  To  Ingiesant's 
excited  fancy  evil  beings  thronged  its  shadowy  paths,  present  to 
the  spiritual  sense,  though  concealed  of  set  purpose  from  the 
feeble  human  sight.     The  two  found  their  eyes  drawn  with  a 


CHAP.  XXIX.]  A  ROMANCK  335 

kind  of  fascination  to  this  strange  sight,  and  Inglesant  arose  and 
closed  the  shutters  before  the  nearest  casement. 

They  felt  more  at  ease  when  the  mysterious  forest  was  shut 
out.  But  Lauretta  was  silent  and  troubled,  and  Inglesant's 
efforts  to  cheer  and  enliven  her  were  not  successful.  The  de- 
licious wines  to  which  he  resorted  to  remove  his  own  uneasi- 
ness and  to  cure  his  companion's  melancholy,  failed  of  their 
effect.  At  last  she  refused  to  drink,  and  rising  up  suddenly, 
she  exclaimed, — 

"  Oh,  it  is  terribly  hot.  I  cannot  bear  it.  I  wish  we  had 
not  come !" 

She  wandered  from  the  room  in  which  they  sat,  through 
the  curtained  doorway  into  the  next,  which  was  furnished  with 
couches,  and  sank  down  on  one  of  them.  Inglesant  followed 
her,  and,  as  if  the  heat  felt  stifling  also  to  him,  went  out  upon 
the  open  verandah,  and  looked  upon  the  forest  once  more. 

Excited  by  the  revels  of  the  past  few  days,  heated  with 
wine,  with  the  night  ride,  and  with  the  overpowering  closeness 
of  the  air,  the  temptation  came  upon  him  with  a  force  which 
he  had  neither  power  nor  desire  to  resist.  He  listened,  but 
no  sound  met  his  ear,  no  breath  stirred,  no  living  being  moved, 
no  disturbance  need  be  dreaded  from  any  side.  From  the 
people  in  the  pavilion  he  looked  for  no  interference,  from  the 
object  of  his  desires  he  had  probably  no  need  to  anticipate  any 
disinclination  but  what  might  easily  be  soothed  away.  The 
universal  custom  of  the  country  in  which  he  was  now  almost 
naturalized  sanctioned  such  acts.  The  hour  was  admirably 
chosen,  the  place  perfectly  adapted  in  every  way,  as  if  the  result 
not  of  happy  chance  but  deeply  concerted  plan. 

Why  then  did  he  hesitate  1  Did  he  still  partly  hope  that 
some  miracle  would  happen  ?  or  some  equally  miraculous  change 
take  place  in  his  mind  and  will  to  save  him  from  himself?  It 
is  true  the  place  and  the  temptation  were  not  of  his  own  seek- 
ing— so  far  he  was  free  from  blame;  but  he  had  not  come 
wholly  unharmed  out  of  the  fiery  trial  at  Umbria,  and,  by  a 
careless  walk  since  he  came  to  Florence,  he  had  prepared  the 
way  for  the  tempter,  and  this  night  even  he  had  disregarded 
the  warning  voice  and  drifted  recklessly  onward.  We  walk  of 
our  own  free  will,  heated  and  inflamed  by  wine,  down  the 
flowery  path  which  we  have  ourselves  decorated  with  garlands^ 
and  we  murmur  because  we  reach  the  &tal  goal 


336  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap.  xxix. 

He  gazed  another  moment  over  the  illumiusd  forest,  which 
seemed  transfigured  in  the  moonlight  and  the  stillness  into  an 
unreal  landscape  of  the  dead.  The  poisonous  mists  crept  over 
the  tops  of  the  cork  trees,  and  flitted  across  the  long  vistas  in 
spectral  forms,  cowled  and  shrouded  for  the  grave.  Beneath 
the  gloom  indistinct  figures  seemed  to  glide, — the  personation 
of  the  miasma  that  made  the  place  so  fatal  to  human  life. 

He  turned  to  enter  the  room,  but  even  as  he  turned  a 
sudden  change  came  over  the  scene.  The  deadly  glamour  of 
the  moonlight  faded  suddenly,  a  calm  pale  solemn  light  settled 
over  the  forest,  the  distant  line  of  hills  shone  out  distinct  and 
clear,  the  evil  mystery  of  the  place  departed  whence  it  came,  a 
fresh  and  cooling  breeze  sprang  up  and  passed  through  the 
rustling  wood,  breathing  pureness  and  life.  The  dayspiing 
was  at  hand  in  the  eastern  sky. 

The  rustling  breeze  was  like  a  whisper  from  heaven  that  re- 
minded him  of  his  better  self  It  would  seem  that  hell  overdid 
it;  the  very  stillness  for  miles  around,  the  almost  concerted 
plan,  sent  flashing  through  his  brain  the  remembrance  of  another 
house,  equally  guarded  for  a  like  purpose — a  house  at  Newnham 
near  Oxford,  into  which  years  ago  he  had  himself  forced  his 
way  to  render  help  in  such  a  case  as  this.  Here  was  the  same 
thing  happening  over  again  with  the  actors  changed ;  was  it 
possible  that  such  a  change  had  been  wrought  in  him  1  The 
long  past  life  of  those  days  rushed  into  his  mind :  the  sacra- 
mental Sundays,  the  repeated  vows,  the  liglit  of  heaven  in  the 
soul,  the  kneeling  forms  in  Little  Gidding  Chapel,  the  face  of 
Mary  Collet,  the  loveliness  that  blessed  the  earth  wdiere  she 
walked,  her  death-bed,  and  her  dying  words.  What  so  rarely 
happens  happened  here.  The  revulsion  of  feeling,  the  rush  of 
recollection  and  association,  was  too  powerfid  for  the  flesh. 
The  reason  and  the  aflfections  rallied  together,  and,  trained  into 
efficiency  by  past  discipline,  regained  the  mastery  by  a  supreme 
effort,  even  at  the  very  moment  of  unsatisfied  desire.  But 
the  struggle  was  fierce;  he  was  torn  like  the  demon -haunted 
child  in  the  gospel  story ;  but,  as  in  that  story,  the  demon  was 
expelled. 

He  came  back  into  the  room.  Lauretta  lay  upon  a  couch 
with  rich  drapery  and  cushions,  her  face  buried  in  her  hands. 
The  cloak  and  hood  in  which  she  had  ridden  were  removed, 
And  the  graceful  outline  of  her  figure  wis  rendered  more  aJlur* 


CHAP.  XXIX.]  A  ROMANCE.  337 

ing  by  the  attitude  in  which  she  lay.  As  he  entered  she  raised 
her  head  from  her  hands,  and  looked  at  him  with  a  strange, 
apprehensive,  expectant  gaze.  He  remained  for  a  moment 
silent,  his  face  very  pale ;  then  he  said,  slowly  and  uncertainly, 
like  a  man  speaking  in  a  dream, — 

"  The  fatal  miasma  is  rising  from  the  plain.  Lauretta,  this 
place  is  safe  for  neither  of  us,  we  had  better  go  on." 

The  morning  was  cloudy  and  chill.  They  had  not  ridden  far 
before  a  splash  of  thunder-rain  fell  and  the  trees  dripped  dis- 
mally. A  sense  of  discomfort  and  disappointment  took  pos- 
session of  Inglesant,  and  so  far  from  deriving  consolation  from 
his  conquest,  he  seemed  torn  by  the  demon  of  discontent.  He 
was  half-conscious  that  his  companion  was  regretting  the  evil 
and  luxurious  house  they  ht*,.  left.  The  ride  to  Pistoia  was 
silent  and  depressed.  As  they  passed  through  the  streets, 
early  as  it  was,  they  were  watclied  by  two  figures  half  concealed 
by  projecting  walls.  One  of  tliem  was  the  Cavaliere,  the  other 
was  tall  and  dark.  Whether  it  was  the  devil  in  the  person  of 
]\Ialvolti,  or  Malvolti  himself,  is  not  of  much  consequence,  nor 
would  the  difference  be  great.  In  either  case  the  issue  was 
the  same, — the  devil's  plot  had  failed.  It  is  not  so  easy  to 
ruin  him  with  whom  the  pressiu-e  of  Christ's  hand  yet  lingers 
in  the  palm. 

When  Inglesant  presented  himself  again  at  the  Convent 
grate,  after  a  few  hom's'  sleepless  unrest  at  an  inn,  he  was 
refused  admittance ;  nor  did  repeated  applications  during  that 
day  and  the  next  meet  with  a  more  favourable  response.  He 
became  the  prey  of  mortification  and  disgust  that,  having  had 
the  prize  in  his  hand,  he  had  of  his  own  free  will  passed  it  into 
the  keeping  of  another.  On  the  evening  of  the  third  day,  how- 
ever, he  received  a  note  from  Laiu-etta  informing  him  that  her 
brother  had  consented  to  postpone  her  betrothal  to  Malvolti 
indefinitely,  and  that  she,  on  her  part,  had  promised  not  to  see 
Inglesant  again  until  the  Papal  election  had  been  decided.  She 
entreated  her  lover  not  to  attempt  to  distiu-b  this  compromise, 
as  by  so  doing  he  would  only  injure  her  whom  he  had  promised 
to  help.  She  promised  to  be  true,  and  did  not  doubt  but  that, 
having  obtained  the  delay  she  sought,  she  should  be  able  to 
gain  her  father's  consent  to  their  marriage,  especially  if  the 
Papal  election  took  the  course  they  hoped  it  would.     ^ 

z 


338  JOHN  INCLESANT ;  [cHAP.  XXX. 

There  Tvas  something  cold  and  formal  about  the  wording  of 
this  note,  which,  however,  might  be  explained  by  its  contimts 
having  been  dictate i  to  the  writer;  but,  unsatisfactory  as  it 
was,  Inglesant  was  compelled  to  acquiesce  in  the  request  it 
contained.  He  was  angry  and  disappointed,  and  it  must  be 
admitted  that  he  had  some  cause.  His  mistress  and  his  plea- 
sant life  at  the  ducal  Court  had  vanished  in  the  morning  mist 
and  rain,  like  the  delusive  pleasures  of  a  dream,  and  the  regret 
which  a  temptation  yielded  to  would  leave  behind  is  not  always 
counterbalanced  by  a  corresponding  elation  when  the  trial  is 
overcome.  He  departed  for  Rome,  having  sent  orders  to 
Florence  for  his  servants  and  baggage  to  meet  him  on  the 
road,  and  the  same  night  on  which  he  entered  the  city  Pope 
Innocent  the  Tenth  expired. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

The  portion  of  the  Vatican  Palace  set  apart  for  the  election  of 
the  Pope,  and  called  the  Conclave,  consisted  of  five  halls  or 
large  marble  rooms,  two  chapels,  and  a  gallery  seventy  feet 
long.  Each  of  these  halls  was  divided  temporarily  into  small 
apartments,  running  up  both  sides,  with  a  broad  alley  between 
them,  formed  of  wood,  and  covered  with  green  or  violet  cloth. 
One  of  these  apartments  was  assigned  to  each  Cardinal  with 
his  attendants.  The  entrance  to  the  whole  of  these  rooms,  halls, 
chapels,  and  gallery,  was  by  a  single  door  fastened  by  four  locks 
and  as  many  keys.  As  soon  as  the  Cardinals  had  entered  the 
Conclave  this  door  was  made  fast,  and  the  four  keys  were  given 
to  the  four  different  orders  of  the  city, — one  to  the  Bishop  of 
Rome,  one  to  the  Cardinals  themselves,  a  third  to  the  Roman 
Nobility,  and  the  fourth  to  the  Officer,  a  great  noble,  who  kept 
the  door.  A  wicket  in  the  door,  of  which  this  Officer  also  kept 
the  key,  permitted  the  daily  meals  and  other  necessaries  to  be 
handed  to  the  Cardinals'  servants,  every  dish  being  carefully 
examined  before  it  was  allowed  to  pass  in.  Within  the  Con- 
clave light  and  air  were  only  obtained  by  sky-lights  or  windows 
opening  upon  interior  courts,  precluding'  communication  from 
without.  The  gloom  of  the  interior  was  so  great,  that  cjmdles 
were  burnt  throughout  ihe  Conclave  at  noon-day. 


CHAP.  XXX.]  A  ROMANCE  339 

From  the  moment  the  Conclave  was  closed  a  silence  of 
expectation  and  anxiety  fell  upon  all  Eome.  The  daily  life  o^ 
the  city  was  hushed.  The  principal  thoroughfares  and  fortresses 
were  kept  by  strong  detachments  of  armed  troops,  and  the 
approaches  to  the  mysterious  door  were  jealously  watched. 
Men  spoke  everywhere  in  whispers,  and  nothing  but  vague 
rumours  of  the  proceedings  within  were  listened  to  in  the 
places  of  pubHc  resort,  and  in  the  coteries  and  gatherings  of  all 
ranks  and  conditions  of  the  people. 

In  the  interior  of  the  Conclave,  for  those  who  were  confined 
within  its  siiigidar  seclusion,  the  day  passed  with  a  wearisome 
monotony  marked  only  by  intrigue  not  less  wearisome.  Early 
in  the  morning  a  tolled  bell  called  the  whole  of  its  inmates  to 
mass  in  one  of  the  small  Chapels  darkened  with  stained  glass, 
and  lighted  dimly  by  the  tapers  of  the  altar,  and  by  a  few  wax 
candles  fixed  in  brass  sockets  suspended  from  the  roof.  The 
Cardinals  sat  in  stalls  down  either  side  of  the  Chapel,  and  at 
the  lower  end  was  a  bar,  kept  by  the  master  of  the  ceremonies 
and  his  assistants,  behind  which  the  attendants  and  servants 
were  allowed  to  stand.  Mass  being  over,  a  table  was  placed 
in  front  of  the  altar,  upon  which  were  a  chalice  and  a  silver 
bell.  Upon  six  stools  near  the  table  are  seated  two  Cardinal-  ' 
Bishops,  two  Cardinal -Priests,  and  two  Cardinal -Deacons. 
Every  Cardinal  in  his  turn,  upon  the  ringing  of  the  bell,  leaves 
his  seat,  and  having  knelt  befofe  the  altar  in  silent  prayer  for 
the  guidance  of  Heaven  in  his  choice,  goes  round  to  the  front  of 
the  table  and  drops  a  paper,  upon  which  he  has  written  the 
name  of  a  Cardinal,  into  the  chalice,  and  returns  in  silence  to 
his  stall. 

A  solemn  and  awful  stillness  pervades  the  scene,  broken  only 
by  the  tinkling  of  the  silver  bell.  The  Cardinals,  one  by  one, 
some  of  them  stalwart  and  haughty  men,  with  a  firm  step  and 
imperious  glance,  others  old  and  decrepit,  scarcely  able  to 
totter  from  their  places  to  the  altar,  or  to  rise  from  their  knees 
without  help,  advance  to  their  mysterious  choice.  To  the  eye 
alone  it  was  in  truth  a  solemn  and  impressive  scene,  and  by  a 
heart  instructed  by  the  sense  of  sight  only,  the  awful  presence 
of  God  the  Paraclete  might,  in  accordance  with  the  popular 
belief,  be  felt  to  hover  above  the  Sacred  Host;  but  in  the 
entire  assembly  to  whom  alone  the  night  was  given  there  waa 
probably  not  one  single  heart  to  which   such  an   idea  waa 


340  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [cHAP.  XXX. 

present.     The  assembly  was  divided  into  different  parties,  each  >. 
day  by  day  intriguing  and  maiioeiivring,  by  every  art  of  policy 
and  every  inducement  of  worldly  interest,  to  add  to  the  number 
of  its  adherents.      "If  perchance,"  says  one  well  qualified  to 
speak,   "there  entered  into  this  Conclave  any  old  Cardinal, 
worn  by  conflict  with  the  Chiu-ch's  enemies  '  in  partibus  infi- 
delium,'  amid  constant  danger  of  prison  or  of  death,  or  perchance 
coming  from  amongst  harmless  peasants  in  country  places,  and 
by  long  absence  from  the  centre  of  the  Church's  polity,  ignorant 
of  the  manner  in  which  her  Princes  trod  the  footsteps  of  the 
Apostles  of  old,  and  by  the  memory  of  such  conflict  and  of 
such  innocence,   and   because  of  such  ignorance,  was  led  to  .  i 
entertain  dreams  of  Divine  guidance,  two  or  three  days'  experi-  I  | 
ence  caused  such  an  6iie~t"o~reiiouuce  all  such  delusion,  and  to  , 
return  to  his  distant  battlefield,  and  so  to  see  Rome  no  more." 

When  every  Cardinal  has  deposited  his  paper,  the  Cardinal- 
Bishoj}  takes  them  out  of  the  chalice  one  by  one,  and  hands 
them  to  the  Cardinal-Deacon,  who  reads  out  the  name  of  the 
elected,  but  not  of  the  Cardinal  who  had  placed  the  pajier  in 
the  chalice  (which  is  written  on  part  of  the  paper  so  folded 
that  even  the  reader  does  not  see  it) ;  and  as  he  reads  the 
name,  every  Cardinal  makes  a  mark  upon  the  scroll  of  names 
he  has  before  him.  When  all  the  names  have  been  read,  the 
Cardinal-Priest,  from  a  paper  which  he  has  prepared,  reads  the 
name  of  him  who  has  had  the  most  voices  and  the  number  of 
the  votes.  If  the  number  be  more  than  two -thirds  of  the 
whole,  the  Cardinal  who  has  received  the  votes  is  thereby 
elected  Pope ;  but  if  not,  the  Cardinal-Priest  rings  the  silver 
bell  once  more,  and  at  the  signal  the  master  of  the  ceremonies, 
Monsignor  Fabei,  advances  up  the  Chapel,  followed  by  a  groom 
carrying  a  brazier  of  lighted  coals,  into  which,  in  the  face  of 
the  whole  assembly,  the  papers  are  dropped  one  by  one  till  all 
are  consumed. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  Conclave  the  Cardinals  were  always 
divided  into  two,  if  not  more  parties,  of  such  relative  strength 
as  to  make  the  attainment  of  such  a  majority  by  either  of  them 
impossible  for  many  days.  It  was  not  until  the  persistent 
intrigues  of  a  fortnight  had  increased  the  majority  of  any  one 
Cardinal  so  much  as  to  give  a  probability  of  his  being  idtimately 
elected,  that  the  waverers  of  all  sides,  not  willing  to  be  known 
as  the  opponents  oi  a  new  Pope,  recorded  their  voices  in  Iria 


CHAP.  XXX.]  A  ROMANCE.  341 

favour,  and  thus  raised  the  majority  to  its  necessary  proportion. 
For  this  very  delicate  matter  occurred  at  this  period  of  the 
election,  that,  should  the  requisite  majority  of  voices  be  ob- 
tained, the  master  of  the  ceremonies  and  his  brazier  were  co 
longer  called  for,  but  the  whole  of  the  papers  were  opened  to 
their  full  extent,  and  the  names  of  the  voters  given  to  the 
world,  whereby,  as  one  conversant  in  these  matters  observes, 
"  many  mysteries  and  infidelities  are  brought  to  light."  It  is 
evident,  therefore,  that,  as  the  majority  of  any  one  Cardinal 
increased  or  showed  signs  of  increasing,  morning  and  evening, 
as  the  suffrages  were  taken,  the  voting  became  a  very  exciting 
and  delicate  matter.  ISTo  one  could  be  certain  but  that  at  the 
next  voting  the  majority  from  the  cause  mentioned  would 
suddenly  swell  to  the  necessary  size,  and  every  man's  name  be 
made  clear  and  plain  on  whose  side  he  had  been. 

Upon  entering  the  Conclave  the  friends  of  Cardinal  Chigi 
adopted  a  quiet  policy,  and  waited  for  the  progress  of  events  to 
work  for  them.  The  abuses  of  the  late  Pontificate,  and  the 
excitement  and  indignation  of  popular  opinion,  had  made  it 
clear  to  all  parties  that  it  was  necessary  to  elect  a  Pope  whose 
character  and  reputation  woidd  restore  confidence.  In  these 
respects  no  one  seemed  more  qualified  than  Cardinal  Chigi, 
who  was  supposed  to  possess  all  the  qualifications  necessary  to 
ensure  the  Romans  from  the  apprehension  of  a  revival  of  the 
past  disorders,  and  to  inspire  the  whole  Christian  world  with 
the  hopes  of  witnessing  a  w^orthy  successor  of  St.  Peter  display- 
ing the  Christian  virtues  from  the  Papal  Chair.  The  great 
reputation  he  had  gained  at  Miinster,  the  determination  he  was 
said  to  have  manifested  to  reform  all  abuses,  the  authority  and 
influence  he  derived  from  his  post  of  Secretary  of  State,  his 
attractive  and  gracious  manner,  the  recommendation  of  the  late 
Pope  upon  his  death-bed, — all  tended  to  bring  his  name  promi- 
nently forw^ard.  He  was  supported  by  the  Spanish  Cardinals, 
chiefly  on  account  of  the  enmity  of  the  French  Court  and  of 
his  professed  opposition  to  Cardinal  Mazarin. 

But,  in  spite  of  these  advantages,  the  enmity  of  the  French 
Coiu-t,  and  the  opposition  of  the  Barberini  family,  the  relations 
and  supporters  of  the  late  Pope,  made  it  necessary  for  his  friends 
to  observe  extreme  caution.  The  French  Cardinals  were  ordered 
to  vote  for  Sacchetti,  and  Cardinal  Barberini  for  the  present 
s'lD-^orted  him,  also,  with  aU  his  party,  chiefly  because  he  had 


342  JOHN  inglesant;  [chap. 

not  yet  made  terms  with  the  Spanish  Court,  which  opposed 
Sacchetti ;  "but  al^o,  as  was  supposed,  because  he  himself  had 
aspirations  towards  the  Papal  Chair,  should  he  find  the  electors 
favom-abie  to  such  a  scheme. 

Upon  the  entrance  into  the  Conclave,  therefore,  Cardinal 
Sacchetti  immediately  obtained  thirty-two  or  thirty-three  votes. 
These  were  not  quite  so  many  as  the  Barberini  expected,  and 
indeed  had  a  right  to  count  upon,  after  the  professions  which 
the  Cardinals  of  the  party  had  made.  This  was  owing  to 
the  defection  of  some  memoers  of  what  was  called  the  Flying 
Squadron,  composed  chiefly  of  young  Cardinals,  who  were  sup- 
posed to  be  devoted  to  the  Barberini,  but  of  whom  several  were 
secretly  favoiurable  to  Cardinal  Chigi. 

The  Spanish  faction,  which  was  numerous  enough  to  have 
secured  the  election  of  any  Cardinal  had  it  been  united,  but  the 
members  of  which  were  agreed  upon  nothing  but  their  determined 
opposition  to  Sacchetti,  contented  itself  with  voting  negatively  at 
every  scrutiny,  making  use  of  the  form  "  accedo  nemini."  This 
course  was  pursued  for  two  entire  months,  during  which  time 
the  scrutinies  were  taken  regularly  morning  and  evening,  always 
with  a  sHghtly  varying  but  indecisive  result. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  reahse  the  wearisomeness  which 
reigned  in  the  Conclave  during  so  protracted  a  period.  The 
crowding  together  or  so  large  a  number  of  persons  in  a  few 
apartments,  the  closeness  of  the  air,  and  the  unbroken  monotony 
of  the  hours  that  passed  so  slowly,  made  the  confinement  almost 
intolerable.  One  Cardinal  was  taken  ill,  and  was  obliged  to  be 
removed.  The  great  gallory  was  generally  used  by  the  Car- 
dinals themselves,  for  exercise  and  conversation,  while  their 
attendants  were  compelled  to  content  themselves  with  their 
masters'  apartments,  or  the  corridors  and  passages.  Those 
which  opened  on  the  interioi-  courts,  and  thereby  afforded  some 
fresh  air,  were  especially  reworted  to.  Communication  from 
without,  though  in  theory  absolutely  prevented,  was  really 
frequent,  all  the  chief  among  the  Cardinals  receiving  advices 
from  foreign  Courts,  and  conveying  intelligence  thither  them- 
selves. 

At  intervals  the  whole  of  the  inmates  were  assembled  to 
listen  to  Father  Qusechi,  preacher  to  the  Conclave,  a  Jesuit, 
and  secretly  in  favour  of  Cardinal  Chigi,  as  was  the  Society  in 
general    The  sermon  was  so  contrived  as  to  influence  its  hearers 


OHAP.  XXX.]  A  ROMANCE.  343 

considerably  by  its  evident  application  to  the  manners  and  con- 
duct of  the  Cardinal. 

The  famous  De  Retz,  then  an  exile  from  France  and  a  sup- 
porter of  Chigi,  by  whom  he  always  sat  in  the  Chapel,  w^as  the 
principal  intriguer  in  his  favour.  He  was  in  communication 
wdth  the  nominal  supporters  of  Barberini,  who  sent  him  intelli- 
gence by  Monsignor  Fabei  when  to  vote  for  Sacchetti,  on  occa- 
sions when  it  would  be  of  no  real  service  to  him,  and  w4ien  to 
refrain.  On  one  of  these  latter  occasions  Fabei  entrusted  his 
message  to  Inglesant,  with  whom  he  was  intimate,  and  it  after- 
wards appeared  that  Sacchetti,  on  that  scrutiny,  wanted  but 
very  few  votes  to  have  secured  his  election.  This  circumstance 
made  a  deep  impression  on  De  Retz,  and  he  never  recognized 
Inglesant  afterwards  without  alluding  to  it. 

The  day  after  this  scrutiny  Cardinal  Barberini  appears  to 
have  thought  that  the  time  was  come  for  his  friends  to  make  a 
demonstration  in  his  behalf,  and  to  the  astonishment  of  the 
Conclave  thirty-one  votes  appeared  in  his  favour  in  the  next 
scrutiny.  This  caused  the  friends  of  Cardinal  Chigi  to  pay 
more  attention  to  his  conduct,  and  to  the  discourses  of  his  Con- 
clavists and  other  partizans,  who  neglected  no  opportunity  of 
exalting  his  good  qualities. 

The  exhaustion  of  the  Conclave  became  extreme.  Cardinal 
Caraffa,  who,  next  to  Sacchetti  and_Chigi,  stood  the  greatest 
chance  of  election,  becamellf  and  died.  Twelve  otlier  Cardinals 
were  balloted  for,  one  after  another,  without  result.  Cardinal 
San  Clemente  was  then  brought  forward,  and,  but  for  the  hos- 
tility of  the  Jesuits,  might  have  been  elected ;  but  the  Spanish 
Cardinals  who  supported  him  did  not  dare  openly  to  offend  the 
Society,  and  the  election  failed. 

The  Barberini  began  to  despair  of  electing  their  candidate, 
and  having  received  favoiurable  advices  from  the  Court  of  Spain, 
were  willing,  either  with  or  without  the  concurrence  of  their 
leader,  to  negotiate  with  the  friends  of  Cardinal  Chigl  Sac- 
chetti, finding  his  own  chances  hopeless,  w-as  not  averse  to  be 
treated  with.  There  remained  only  the  Court  of  France. 
*  *  *  *  * 

The  MSS.  are  here  defective. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  Cardinal  Sacchetti's  letter  had  the  desired 
effect  upon  Maz,irin,  who  immediately  sent  the  necessary  letter* 


344  JOHN  INGLESANT  J  [chap.  XXX. 

to  the  French  Cardinals,  withdrawing  the  veto  upon  Cbigi. 
Nothing  remained  now  but  to  gain  the  conciuTence  of  Cardinal 
Barberini.  For  a  long  time  he  refused  to  accede,  but,  the 
members  of  his  party  who  had  from  the  first  secretly  supported 
Chigi  having  now  openly  declared  in  his  favour,  Barbeiini  at 
last  consented  to  hold  a  conference.  It  took  place  immediately 
after  the  morning  scrutiny,  and  lasted  but  a  short  time.  But 
it  sat  long  enough  to  arrange  that  the  next  morning  Cardinal 
Chigi  should  be  elected  Pope. 

This  determination  was  so  suddenly  arrived  at,  and  was 
concealed  so  carefully,  that  nothing  certainly  was  known  during 
the  rest  of  the  day,  outside  the  number  of  those  who  had  taken 
part  in  the  conference.  Tliere  were  vague  rumours,  and  many 
discontents,  but  the  time  was  so  short  that  many  who  would 
have  declared  in  fivour  of  Sacchetti,  had  longer  time  been  given 
them,  were  not  able  to  recover  from  their  surprise. 

Inglesant  was  of  course  informed  by  Cardinal  Chigi  of  what 
had  occurred  immediately  after  the  conference,  and  about  mid- 
day he  received  a  message  from  De  Retz  warning  him  to  be 
upon  his  guard.  During  the  afternoon,  however,  some  further 
intelligence  of  the  feeling  within  the  Conclave  came  to  the 
knowledge  of  that  astute  intriguer,  and  he  sent  Monsignor  Fabei 
to  Inglesant  about  five  o'clock. 

This  man  was  a  favoiuable  specimen  of  the  Italian  servant 
of  an  Ecclesiastical  Court.  Belonging  to  a  family  which  had 
been  trained  for  generations  in  the  service  of  the  Curia,  he  was 
a  man  to  whom  the  ditficidties  which  perplexed  others,  and 
the  anomalies  which  appeared  to  some  men  to  exist  between 
Christian  polity  as  it  might  be  conceived  to  be  and  Christian 
polity  as  it  was  practised  in  Rome,  did  not  exist ; — a  man  to 
whom  the  Divine,  so  far  as  it  was  manifested  to  him  at  all, 
took  the  form,  without  doubt  or  scruple,  of  that  gorgeous 
though  imwieldy,  and,  as  it  seemed  to  some,  slightly  question- 
able, economy  of  which  he  was  the  faithful  servant.  He  was 
honest,  yet  he  appeared — such  was  the  peculiarity  of  his  train- 
ing and  circumstances — to  have  solved  the,  on  good  authority, 
insoluble  problem  of  serving  two  masters  at  the  same  time ;  for 
two  opposing  Cardinals,  or  two  factions  of  Cardinals,  alike  com- 
manded his  reverence  and  service  at  the  same  moment.  Much 
of  this  service  was  no  doubt  unthinking  and  unconscious,  else 
the  memoirs  of  such  a  man,  composed  by  himself  without 


CHAP.  XXX.]  A  ROMANCK  345 

reserve,  would  be  perhaps  as  interesting  a  book  as  could  be 
written. 

"Something  is  going  on  within  the  Conclave,  Cavaliere," 
he  said,  "  of  which  I  am  not  entirely  cognizant.  Of  course  I 
am  aware  of  the  communications  which  have  been  made  from 
outside  dming  this  most  protracted  Conclave.  The  Princes  of 
the  Chiurch  must  have  every  opportunity  given  them  of  arriving 
at  a  just  conclusion  in  this  most  important  matter,  and  I  have 
never  been  backward  in  affording  every  assistance  to  their  Emi- 
nences ;  but  what  we  have  to  deal  with  to-night  is  of  a  very 
different  kind.  You  have  nothing  to  dread  from  the  chiefs  of 
the  opposite  party ;  they  have  accepted  the  situation,  and  will 
loyally  carry  out  their  engagements.  But  *they  have  altered 
their  policy  without  considtiiig  or  remembering  their  supporters, 
and  among  these,  especially  the  inferior  ones  outside  the  Con- 
clave, the  disappointment  is  severe.  They  have  not  time,  nor 
are  they  in  a  position  to  make  terms  with  the  successful  party, 
and  their  expectations  of  advancement  are  annihilated.  They 
are,  many  of  them,  absolutely  unscrupulous,  and  woidd  hazard 
everything  to  gain  time.  They  have  some  means  of  communi- 
cation between  the  outside  world  of  Eome  and  their  partizans 
within  the  Conclave,  which  they  have  not  used  till  now,  and 
with  which,  therefore,  I  am  unacquainted.  They  are  employ- 
ing it  now.  What  the  exact  effort  will  be  I  do  not  know,  but 
should  yom-  Padrone,  Cardinal  Chigi,  fall  ill  before  to-morrow's 
scrutiny,  it  would  delay  his  election,  and  delay  is  all  they  want. 
There  are  sufficient  malcontents  to  prevent  his  election  if  they 
had  only  time ;  two  or  three  days  would  give  them  all  they 
want.  I  shoidd  advise  you  not  to  sleep  to-night,  but  to  watch 
with  a  wakefulness  which  starts  at  every  sound." 

The  apartment  assigned  to  Cardinal  Chigi  was  subdivided 
into  three  smaller  ones,  the  largest  of  which  was  appropriated 
to  the  bedchamber  of  the  Cardinal,  the  two  others  to  his 
attendants.  These  apartments  communicated  with  each  other, 
and  only  one  opened  upon  the  centre  corridor  running  down  the 
Hall.  The  Cardinal  retii^ed  early  to  his  own  chamber,  and 
most  of  the  other  Cardinals  did  the  same.  A  profound  silence 
reigned  in  the  Conclave ;  if  any  of  the  attendants  ( till  stirred 
they  were  velvet -shod,  and  the  floors  and  walls,  lined  with 
velvet,  prevented  the  least  soimd  from  being  heard. 

Inglesant   remained  alone  in   the  outermost  of  the  thrM 


346  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  TciiAP.  XXX. 

apartments,  and  determined  to  keep  his  faculties  ou  the  alert. 
For  some  reason,  however,  either  the  fatigue  of  the  long  con- 
j&nement,  or  the  deathlike  stillness  of  the  night,  a  profound 
drowsiness  overpowered  him,  and  he  continually  sank  into  a 
doze.  He  tried  to  read,  but  the  page  floated  before  his  eyes, 
and  it  was  only  by  continually  rising  and  pacing  the  small 
chamber  that  he  kept  himself  from  sinking  into  a  deep  sleep. 

A  profound  peace  and  repose  seemed  to  reign  in  a  place 
where  so  many  scheming  and  excited  brains,  versed  in  every  art 
of  policy,  were  really  at  work. 

Inglesant  had  sat  down  again,  and  had  fallen  once  more 
into  a  slight  doze,  when  suddenly,  from  no  apparent  cause,  his 
drowsiness  left  him,  and  he  became  intensely  and  almost  pain- 
fidly  awake.  The  silence  around  him  was  the  same  as  before, 
but  a  violent  agitation  and  excitement  disturbed  his  mind,  and 
an  overpowering  apprehension  of  some  approaching  existence, 
inimical  to  himself,  aroused  his  faculties  to  an  acute  perception, 
and  braced  his  nerves  to  a  supreme  effort.  In  another  moment, 
this  apprehension,  at  first  merely  mental,  became  perceptible  to 
the  sense,  and  he  could  hear  a  sound.  It  was,  as  it  were,  the 
echo  of  a  low  faint  creeping  movement,  the  very  ghost  of  a  sound. 
Whence  it  came  Inglesant  could  not  determine,  but  it  was  from 
without  the  apartment  in  which  he  sat.  No  longer  able  to 
remain  passive,  he  rose,  drew  back  the  velvet  curtain  that 
screened  the  entrance  from  the  corridor,  opened  the  door  silently, 
and  went  out. 

The  corridor  was  lighted  here  and  there  along  its  great 
length  by  oil  lamps  suspended  before  every  third  door  of  the 
Cardinals'  rooms ;  but  the  dark  and  massive  hangings,  the 
loftiness  of  the  hall  overhead,  and  the  dimness  of  the  lamps 
themselves,  caused  the  light  to  be  misty  and  uncertain,  as  in  a 
confused  and  troubled  dream.  One  of  these  lamps  was  sus- 
pended immediately  above  the  door  at  which  Inglesant  had 
appeared,  and  he  stood  in  its  full  light,  being  himself  much 
more  distinctly  seen  than  he  was  himself  able  to  see  anything. 
He  was  richly  dressed  in  dark  velvet,  after  the  French  fashion, 
and  in  the  uncertain  light  his  resemblance  to  his  murdered 
brother  was,  in  this  dress,  very  great.  He  held  a  slight  and 
jewelled  dagger  in  his  hand. 

As  he  paused  under  the  suspended  lamp  the  sound  he 
had  before  heard  developed  itself  into  low  stealthy  footsteps 


CHAP.  XXXI.]  A  ROMANCE.  347 

approaching  down  the  corridor,  apparently  on  the  opposite  side, 
and  the  next  moment  a  j&gm-e,  more  like  a  phantom  thrown  on 
the  opposite  wall  than  a  substantial  being,  glided  into  sight. 
It  was  shrouded  in  dark  and  flowing  drapery,  and  kept  so  close 
to  the  heavy  hangings  that  it  seemed  almost  the  waving  of  their 
folds  stirred  by  some  unknown  breeze.  Though  it  passed  down 
the  opposite  side,  it  ke]:)t  its  attention  turned  in  Inglesant's 
direction,  and  almost  at  the  same  moment  at  which  he  appeared 
through  the  opening  door  it  saw  him  and  instantly  stopped. 
It  lost  its  stealthy  motion  and  assumed  an  attitude  of  intense 
and  speechless  terror,  such  as  Inglesant  had  never  seen  depicted 
in  a  human  being,  and  by  this  attitude  revealed  itself  more 
completely  to  his  gaze.  The  hood  which  shaded  its  face  fell 
partly  back,  and  displayed  featm-es  pale  as  death,  and  lustrous 
eyes  dilated  with  horror,  and  Inglesant  could  see  that  it  held 
some  nameless  weapon  in  its  hand.  As  it  stood,  arrested  in 
its  piu-pose,  breathless  and  uncertain,  it  seemed  to  Inglesant  a 
phantom  murderer,  or  rather  the  phantom  of  murder  itself,  as 
though  nothing  short  of  the  murderous  principle  sufiiced  any 
longer  to  dog  his  steps. 

This  strange  figure  confronted  Inglesant  for  some  seconds, 
during  which  neither  stirred,  each  with  his  eyes  riveted  upon 
the  other,  each  with  his  weapon  in  his  hand.  Then  the  phantom 
murmured  in  an  inarticulate  and  broken  voice,  that  faltered  upon 
the  air  as  though  tremulous  with  horror,  "It  is  himself!  He 
has  taken  the  dagger  from  his  bleeding  wound." 

Then,  as  it  had  come,  it  glided  backwards  along  the  heavy 
drapery,  becoming  more  and  more  lost  in  its  folds,  till,  at  first 
apparently  but  the  shadow  of  a  shade,  it  faded  more  and  more 
into  the  hanging  darkness,  and  vanished  out  of  sight. 

The  next  morning,  at  the  scrutiny  after  early  mass,  Fabius 
Chigi,  Cardinal  and  Secretary  of  State,  was,  by  more  than  two- 
thirds  of  the  whole  Conclave,  elected  Pope. 


CHAPTER  XXXL 

There  is,  perhaps,  no  comparison  so  apposite,  though  it  be  a 
homely  one,  to  the  condition  of  affiiirs  in  Italy  at  this  time — - 
upon  the  election  of  a  new  Pope — as  that  of  a  change  of  trumps 


3-18  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [cHAP.  XXXI. 

at  a  game  of  cards.  All  persons  and  matters  remain  the  same 
as  they  were  before,  yet  their  values  and  relationships  are  all 
changed ;  the  aspect  of  the  entire  scene  is  altered  ;  those  who 
before  were  in  little  esteem  are  exalted,  and  those  who  were  in 
great  power  and  estimation  are  abased.  All  the  persons  with 
whom  Ingiesant  had  been  connected  were  more  or  less  affected 
by  it,  except  Cardinal  Rinucciiii,  to  whom  it  made  little  differ- 
ence. To  the  Cavaliere  and  to  Malvolti  it  was  ruin._  The 
formef'was  so  deeply  involved' in  debt,  in  private  feuds,  and 
entanglements  with  the  authorities,  his  cliaracter  was  so  utterly 
lost  with  all  parties,  and  his  means  of  usefulness  to  any  so  small, 
that  it  is  probable  that  even  the  elevation  to  power  of  the  Bar- 
berini  faction  would  not  have  been  of  much  use  to  him.  But, 
whatever  might  have  been  his  prospects  had  the  election  resulted 
otherwise,  his  only  chance  now  of  safety  from  prison  and  even 
death  was  in  Inglesant's  connection  with  his  sister,  and  in  the 
protection  he  might  hope  to  experience  upon  that  account ;  his 
only  hope  depended  upon  the  force  of  Inglesant's  affection. 
The  fear  of  private  assa-sination  kept  him  almost  confined  to 
his  chamber.  Malvolti's  circumstances  were  still  more  hopeless ; 
notorious  for  every  species  of  vice  and  crime,  and  hateful  even 
to  the  very  bravoes  and  dregs  of  the  Italian  populace,  he  had 
now  lost  all  hope  of  alliance  or  even  assistance  from  his  friend 
the  Cavaliere,  who  discarded  him  the  moment  that  he  was  of 
no  further  use.  Maddened  by  this  treatment  and  by  despair, 
no  way  seemed  open  to  him  except  that  of  desperate  revenge. 
Towards  Ingiesant  his  hatred  was  peculiarly  intense,  being 
mixed  with  a  certain  kind  of  superstitious  dread.  He  regarded 
him  almost  as  the  shade  of  his  murdered  brother,  returned  from 
the  grave  to  dog  his  steps.  It  was  his  presence  which  had 
thwarted  his  last  desperate  attempt  within  the  Conclave,  his 
last  hope  of  earning  protection  and  rewards.  He  expected 
nothing  but  punishment  and  severe  retribution  at  Inglesant's 
hands.  Surrounded  as  he  was  by  perils  and  enemies  on  every 
side,  this  peril  and  this  dreaded  enemy  stood  most  prominently 
in  his  path ;  a  blow  struck  here  would  be  not  only  a  measure 
of  self-defence,  but  a  sweet  gratification  of  revenge,  and  a  relief 
from  an  appalling  supernatural  terror.  This  terrible  semblance 
of  his  murdered  victim  once  out  of  his  path,  he  might  hope 
that,  the  vision  of  a  bloody  hearthstone  in  England  mi^ht  not 
be  so -constantly  before  his  eyes. 


CHAP.  XXXI.]  A  ROMANCK  349 

To  Inglesant  himself  the  bright  prospects  which  seemed 
opening  before  him  gave  Httle  satisfaction.  He  was  exhausted 
in  body  by  his  long  detention  within  the  Conclave,  and  the  tone 
of  his  spirit  was  impaired  by  the  intrigue  and  hypocrisy  of  which 
he  had  been  a  witness  and  a  partatei*.  It  is  impossible  to 
-feieel  morning  after  morning  before  the  Bacrament,  in  a  spirit 
of  worldliness  and  chicane,  without  being  soiled  and  pollute<.l  in 
the  secret  places  of  the  soul.  The  circumstances  of  his  visit 
to  Umbria  and  to  Florence,  howbeit  in  both  he  had  been  pre- 
served almost  by  a  miracle  from  actual  sin,  had  left  an  evil 
mark  upon  his  conscience.  He  felt  little  of  the  sweet  calm  and 
peace  he  had  enjoyed  for  a  season  in  the  company  of  Molinos, 
during  his  first  visit  to  Rome,  Something  of  his  old  misery 
returned  upon  him,  and  he  felt  himself  again  the  sport  of  the 
fiend,  who  was  working  out  his  destruction  by  some  terrible 
crime,  of  which  he  was  the  agent,  and  the"  Itahan  murderer  the 
cause. 

"  This  man  is  at  large  in  Rome,"  said  Don  Agostiuo  to  him 
one  day  ;  "I  should  advise  you  to  have  him  assassinated.  It 
is  time  the  earth  was  rid  of  such  a  villain,  and  the  Roman  law 
is  useless  in  such  a  case.  All  i)rotection  is  withdrawn  from  him, 
and  every  man,  high  and  low,  wdthin  the  city  will  rejoice  at 
his  death." 

Inglesant  shook  his  head. 

"  I  do  not  value  my  life,  God  knows,  at  a  straw's  worth," 
he  said.  "  Because  he  murdered  my  brother  foully  and  treacher- 
ously, he  and  I  shall  too  surely  meet  some  day ;  but  the  time 
Ls  not  yet  come.  Sm-ely  if  the  devil  can  afford  to  wait,  much 
more  can  I." 

He  spoke  more  to  himself  than  to  the  other,  and  there  is 
reason  to  suppose  that  Don  Agostino  made  arrangements  to 
have  Malvolti  assassinated  on  his  own  responsibility  ;  but  the 
Italian  avoided  his  bravoes  for  a  time. 

Some  short  time  after  the  Pope's  election,  in  the  height  of 
the  Carnival,  1  a  masked  ball  w^as  given  in  the  Palace  Doria, 
at  which  Don  Agostino  had  arranged  a  set  composed  entirely 
of  liis  own  friends.     It  was  composed  in  imitation  of  the  old 

1  It  is  generally  stated  by  historians  that  the  election  of  Cardinal  Chigi 
took  place  on  April  7th,  1655,  and  as  Easter  that  year  fell  on  April  15th, 
there  appears  some  discrepancy  in  this  part  of  the  narrative.  The  reader 
must  decide  between  these  contending  authorities. 


350  JOHN  INC4LESANT ;  [cHAP.  xxxt 

comedies  of  the  Atellanse,  upon  which  the  Punchinello  and 
Harlequinade  of  all  nations  has  been  formed,  and  which  being 
domestic  dramas  performed  in  masques  by  the  Roman  youth 
with  an  old-fashioned  elegance  and  simplicity,  were  peculiarly 
fitted  for  performance  at  a  modern  masquerade.  A  primitive 
and  rude  form  of  pantomime,  founded  on  caricatiu-e  and  bur- 
lesque, with  a  few  characters  boldly  drawn,  has  none  of  the 
charm  of  the  later  comedy,  which  is  a  picture  of  real  life  with 
its  variety  of  character  and  incident,  and  possesses  that  excel- 
lent art  of  showing  men  as  they  are,  while  representing  them 
as  they  seem  to  be.  But,  though  it  fell  short  of  this  higher 
perfection,  the  broad  farce  and  few  characters  of  the  older  form 
of  comedy  are  not  wanting  in  much  lively  and  yet  serious  paint- 
ing of  human  life,  which  is  aU  the  more  serious  and  pathetic 
from  its  broad  and  unconscious  farce.  The  jester,  the  knave, 
the  old  man,  the  girl,  the  lover, — these  types  that  are  eternal 
and  yet  never  old, — with  the  endless  complication  in  which, 
both  on  the  stage  and  real  life,  they  are  perpetually  involved, 
are  susceptible  of  infinite  application  and  interest  to  the  imagina- 
tion. As  the  rehearsal  progressed,  Inglesant  was  struck  and 
interested  with  these  ideas,  and  as  the  night  came  on  there 
seemed  to  him  to  be  in  the  world  nothing  but  play  within  play, 
scene  within  scene.  Between  the  most  incidental  acts  of  an 
excited  and  boisterous  crowd  and  the  most  solemn  realities  of 
life  and  death  it  seemed  to  him  impossible  to  distinguish  other- 
wise than  in  degree  ;  all  appeared  part  of  that  strange  interlude 
which,  between  the  Dramas  of  Eternity,  is  performed  continually 
upon  the  stage  of  life. 

The  set  was  a  large  one,  consisting  of  the  ordinary  panto- 
mime types,  supplemented  by  duplicates,  peasants,  priests,  sbirri 
(always  a  favourite  subject  of  satire  and  practical  jokes), 
country  girls,  and  others.  Don  Agostino,  whose  wit  was  ready 
and  brilliant,  took  the  part  of  clown  or  jester,  and  Inglesa,nt 
that  of  the  stage  lover,  a  role  requiring  no  great  efi"ort  to 
sustain.  The  part  of  Columbine  was  sustained  by  a  young 
girl,  a  mistress  of  Don  Agostino,  of  considerable  beauty  and  wit, 
and  as  yet  unspoiled  by  the  wicked  life  of  Rome.  She  was 
dressed  as  a  Contadina,  or  peasant  girl,  in  holiday  costume. 
Harleqi^in  was  jDlayed  by  a  young  Count,  a  boy  of  weak  intellect, 
involved  m  every  species  of  dissipation,  and  consigned  to  ruin 
by  designing  foes,  of  \yhom  so^le  were  of  his  own  family. 


CHAP.  XXXI. J  A  ROMANCE.  351 

As  the  ball  progressed  the  party  attracted  great  notice  by 
the  clever  interludes  and  acts  they  performed  between  the 
dances.  In  these  the  usual  tricks  and  practical  jokes  were 
introduced  sparingly,  relieved  by  a  higher  style  of  wit,  and  by 
allusions  to  the  topics  of  the  day  and  to  the  foibles  of  the 
society  of  Rome.  The  parts  were  all  well  sustained,  and  Don 
Agostino  exerted  himself  successfully  to  give  brilliancy  and  life 
to  the  whole  party.  The  young  Harlequin-Count,  who  had  at 
first  seemed  only  to  excel  in  lofty  capers  and  somersaults,  was 
the  first  who  showed  tokens  of  fatigue.  He  became  gradually 
listless  and  careless,  so  that  he  changed  his  part,  and  became 
the  butt  of  the  rest,  instead  of  their  tormentor. 

A  dance  in  sets  had  just  begun,  and  Inglesant  could  not 
help  being  struck  with  his  disconsolate  manner,  which  showed 
itself  plainly,  even  through  his  mask  and  disguise.  It  seemed 
that  others  noticed  it  as  well,  for  as  Inglesant  met  the 
Contadina  in  one  of  the  combinations  of  the  figure,  she  said 
in  the  pause  of  the  dance, — 

"  Do  you  see  the  Count,  Cavaliere  ?  He  is  on  the  brink  of 
ruin,  body  and  soul.  His  cousin,  and  one  or  two  more  who 
are  in  the  set,  are  engaged  with  him  in  some  desperate  com- 
plication, and  are  working  upon  his  feeble  mind  and  his  terror. 
Cannot  you  help  him  at  all  V 

When  the  dance  ceased  Inglesant  went  over  to  the  Count, 
intending  to  speak  to  him,  but  his  cousin  and  others  of  the  set 
were  talking  earnestly  to  him,  and  Inglesant  stepped  back.  He 
saw  that  the  longer  his  treacherous  friends  spoke  to  him  the 
more  broken  down  and  crushed  in  spirit  did  the  poor  Harlequin- 
Coimt  become;  and  it  was  evident  to  Inglesant  that  here  a 
play  was  being  enacted  within  the  play,  and  that,  as  often  is 
the  case,  one  of  the  deep  tragedies  of -life  was  appearing  in  the 
fantastic  dress  of  farce.  As  he  stood  dreamily  w^atching  what 
occurred,  Don  Agostino  called  him  off  to  commence  another 
comic  act,  and  when  at  the  first  pause  he  turned  to  look  for 
the  Count,  he  could  no  longer  see  him.  His  cousin  and  the 
others  were  present,  however,  and  soon  after  the  set  was  again 
formed  for  another  dance. 

The  stifling  air  of  the  crowded  rooms,  and  the  fatigue  of  the 
part  he  had  to  perform,  wrought  upon  Inglesant's  brain ;  tho 
confused  figures  of  the  dance  dazzled  his  sight,  and  the  music 
sounded  strange  and  grotesque.     As  the  partners  crossed  each 


352  JOHN  INGLES  ANT ;  [CHAP.  XXXI. 

other,  and  he  came  again  to  the  Contadina  in  his  turn,  she 
grasped  his  hand  in  hers,  and  said,  hurriedly, — 

"Do  you  see  who  is  standing  in  the  Count's  place"?" 

Inglesant  looked,  and  certainly,  in  the  place  of  the  dance 
which  should  have  been  occupied  by  the  Count,  was  a  tall 
figiu-e  in  the  dress  of  a  white  friar,  over  which  was  carelessly 
thrown  a  black  domino,  which  allowed  the  dark  fiery  eyes  of 
the  wearer  to  be  seen. 

"  The  Count  has  gone,"  whispered  the  girl,  trembling  all 
over  as  she  spoke,  "  no  one  knows  whither ;  no  one  knows  who 
this  man  is  who  has  come  in  his  place.  He  is  gone  to  drown 
himself  in  the  river;  this  is  the  devil  who  supports  his  part." 

In  spite  of  the  girl's  visible  agitation  and  his  own  excite- 
ment, Inglesant  laughed,  and,  taking  her  words  as  a  jest, 
turned  again  to  look  at  the  strange  masque,  intending  to  make 
some  ludicrous  comment  to  reassure  his  friend.  To  his  astonish- 
ment the  words  died  upon  his  Hps,  and  an  icy  chill  seemed  to 
strike  through  his  blood  and  cause  his  heart  to  beat  violently. 
A  sensation  of  dread  overpowered  him,  the  dance-music 
sounded  wild  and  despairing  in  his  ears,  and  the  ever-varying 
throng  of  figures,  waving  with  a  thousand  colours,  swam  before 
his  eyes.  In  the  appearance  of  the  stranger,  which  was  simply 
that  of  a  taU  man,  there  was  nothing  to  accoimt  for  this ;  and 
except  that  he  kept  his  piercing  eyes  steadily  fixed  upon 
Inglesant,  there  was  nothing  in  his  manner  to  attract  attention. 
Inglesant  went  through  the  rest  of  the  dance  mechanically, 
and  suddenly,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  the  music  stopped. 

The  dance  being  over,  most  of  Don  Agostino's  party,  tired 
with  their  exertions,  withdrew  to  the  buffet  of  an  adjoining 
apartment  for  refreshment.  Inglesant  had  taken  off  his  masque, 
and  standing  by  the  buffet,  a  little  apart  from  the  rest,  was 
fanning  himself  with  it,  and  cooling  his  parched  throat  with 
iced  wine,  when  he  was  aware  that  the  strange  figiure  had 
followed  him.  It  was  standing  before  him  with  a  glass  in  its 
hand,  which  it  seemed  to  fill  from  a  bottle  of  peculiar  shape, 
which  Inglesant  recognized  as  one  only  used  to  contain  a  rare 
Italian  wine. 

"  Cavaliere,"  the  strange  masque  said  in  a  soft  and  pohte 
voice,  "  this  wine  will  do  you  more  good  than  that  which  you 
are  drinking ;  it  cools  and  rests  the  brain.  Will  you  drink  witb 
me?" 


CHAP.  XXXI.]  A  ROMANCE.  353 

As  he  spoke  he  offered  Inglesant  the  glass  he  held,  and 
filled  another,  and  at  the  same  instant  the  Contadina  came  up 
to  Inglesant  and  hung  upon  his  arm. 

Inglesant,  who  was  unmasked,  stood  with  the  glass  in  his 
hand,  waiting  for  the  other  to  remove  his  domino  before  he 
bowed  and  drank ;  but  the  stranger  did  not  do  so. 

After  a  moment's  pause,  amid  the  breathless  silence  of  the 
whole  group,  who  were  looking  on,  the  stranger  said,  speaking 
with  a  courteous  speech  and  gesture,  which  if  acted  were 
perfectly  well  assumed, — 

"  Pardon  me  that  I  do  not  remove  my  masque ;  it  is  my 
misfortune  that  I  am  not  able  to  do  so." 

Impressed  by  the  other's  manner,  it  struck  Inglesant  in  a 
moment  that  this  must  be  some  great  noble,  perhaps  a  Prince 
of  the  Chm'ch,  for  whom  it  woidd  be  injudicious  to  appear  un- 
masked, and  bowing  courteously,  he  raised  the  glass  to  his  lips. 

As  he  did  so  the  black  eyes  of  the  disguised  friar  were  fixed 
Bteadily  upon  him,  and  the  Contadina  said  in  his  ear,  in  an 
eager,  frightened  whisper, — 

"  Do  not  drink." 

The  tremor  of  her  voice,  and  of  her  figure  on  his  arm, 
brought  back  in  a  moment  the  terror  and  distrust  which  the 
bearing  and  manner  of  the  other  had  dispelled,  and  raising  the 
cup,  he  let  his  lip  rest  for  a  moment  in  the  liquor,  but  did  not 
drink.    Then  replacing  the  glass  upon  the  buffet  he  said  coolly, — 

"  It  is  a  good  wine,  but  my  English  habit  has  spoiled  my 
taste.     I  do  not  like  the  Italian  Volcanic  wines." 

"  I  regret  it,"  said  the  other,  turning  away ;  "  they  are  a 
quietus  for  the  fever  of  life." 

The  party  breathed  more  freely  as  he  left  the  room,  and 
the  Contadina,  taking  the  glass  which  Inglesant  had  put  down, 
emptied  its  contents  upon  the  floor. 

They  followed  the  domino  into  the  ball-room,  where  they 
saw  him  speaking  to  the  Count's  cousin,  and  to  two  or  three 
others  of  the  group,  who  had  remained  there  or  sought  refresh- 
ment elsewhere. 

As  the  last  dance  began,  in  the  early  daybreak  which  made 
the  lamps  burn  faintly,  and  cast  a  pale  and  melancholy  light 
over  the  gay  dresses  and  the  moving  figures,  over  the  gilding 
and  marble,  and  the  dim  lovely  paintings  on  the  walls,  Inglesant 
was  conscious  of  a  strange  and  death-like  feeling  that  benumbed 

2  a 


354  JOHN  inglesant;  [chap.  xxxi» 

nis  frame.  Hi  was  bitterly  cold,  and  his  sight  \)ecame  dim  and 
micertain.  The  music  seemed  to  grow  wilder  and  more  fantastic, 
and  the  crowded  dancers,  grotesque  and  goblin-like  to  any  eyes, 
became  unreal  as  a  dream  to  his. 

Suddenly,  as  before,  the  music  ceased,  and  not  knowing 
what  he  did,  Inglesant  became  separated  from  his  friends,  and 
was  borne  by  the  throng  to  the  doors  and  down  the  staircase 
into  the  com'tyard  and  the  street. 

The  Piazza  and  the  Corso  beyond  were  crowded  with 
carriages,  and  with  servants  carrying  dim  torches,  and  the 
morning  air  was  rent  with  confused  noise. 

Nearly  unconscious,  Inglesant  allowed  himself  to  be  carried 
onward  by  the  crowd  of  persons  leaving  the  palace  on  foot — a 
motley  throng  in  every  variety  of  costume,  and  he  was  soon 
borne  out  of  the  square  into  the  Corso  and  down  the  street. 

Suddenly  he  heard  a  voice  behind,  clear  and  distinct,  to  his 
ears  at  least,  amid  the  confused  noise, — 
"  There  he  is — now  strike  ! " 

Turnmg  round  quickly,  he  saw  the  masque  within  two  yards 
of  him,  with  something  in  the  folds  of  his  gown  which  shone  in 
the  light.     In  another  moment  he  would  have  been  close  to 
him,  when  they  were  swept  apart  by  a  sudden  movement  of  the 
crowd,  and  Don  Agostino's  carriage,  surrounded  by  servants, 
passed  close  by  the  spot  to  which  Inglesant  had  drifted.     He 
was  recognized,  and  Agostino  welcomed  him  eagerly,  saying, — 
"  I  have  been  looking  for  you  everywhere." 
They  proceeded  along  the  Corso,  Inglesant  still  like  a  man 
in  a  dream,  and  turned  down  towards  the  bridge  of  St.  Angelo. 
At  the  corner  of  a  street  leading  to  the  river,  another  pause 
occurred.     The  carriage  of  a  great  French  noble  and  Prince  of 
the  Church — which  had  followed  the  Corso  farther  on — was 
I^assing  when  they  tm^ned  into  the  street,  and  according  to  the 
formal  etiquette  of  the  day,  even  at  that  horn-  and  in  the 
crowded  street,  Don  Agostino's  coachman  stopped  his  hors(;s 
before  the  carriage  of  his  master's  superior,  and  the  servants 
opened  the  door  that  one  of  the  gentlemen  at  least  might  alight. 
At  the  same  moment,  there  seemed  to  be  some  confusion  in  the 
crowd  at  the  top  of  the  short  street  leading  to  the  river ;  and 
Inglesant,  still  hardly  knowing  what  he  did,  alighted,  with  the 
double  purpose  of  seeing  what  was  the  matter,  and  of  saluting 
his  patron.     As  he  did  so,  one  of  the  servants  said  to  him, — 


CHAP.  XXXI.]  A  ROaiANCE.  355 

"  They  are  bringing  up  a  dead  body,  sir." 

It  was  true.  A  body  had  just  been  drawn  out  of  the  river, 
and,  phiced  on  nets  and  benches  of  a  boat,  was  being  cariied  on 
the  shoulders  of  fishermen  up  the  street.  As  it  passed,  Inglesant 
could  see  the  face,  which  hung  di-ooping  towards  him  over  the 
edge  of  the  nets.     It  was  the  face  of  the  Harlequin-Count. 

It  had  scarcely  passed,  when  Inglesant  heard — as  a  man 
hears  over  and  over  again  repeated  in  a  ghastly  dream — the 
same  voice  that  spoke  before,  saying, — 

"  There  he  is  again.  If  you  let  him  get  back  to  the  coach 
you  will  lose  him.     Go  round  by  the  horses'  heads." 

The  restlessness  of  the  impatient  horses  had  made  a  little 
space  clear  of  the  crowd,  and  the  same  had  happened  in  front 
of  the  horses  of  the  Cardinal-Duke,  so  that  the  street  between 
them  was  comparatively  clear.  Strangely  frightened  and  dis- 
tressed, Inglesant  struggled  back  to  Agostino's  carriage,  and 
had  just  reached  the  door  when  the  masque,  passing  round  the 
horses'  heads,  sprang  upon  him,  and  struck  a  violent  blow  with 
the  shining  steel.  The  state  of  his  victim's  brain  saved  him. 
The  moment  he  reached  the  door  he  reeled  against  it,  and  the 
weapon  glanced  off  his  person,  the  hilt  striking  him  a  violent 
blow  on  the  chest.  He  fell  backwards  into  the  coach,  and 
Agostino  caught  a  second  blow  in  his  sleeve.  The  startled 
servants  threw  themselves  upon  the  murderer,  but  he  slipped 
through  their  hands  and  escaped. 

*  *  *  ♦  « 

Two  days  after  the  ball,  when  the  morning  of  Ash  Wednesday 
broke  with  the  lovely  Italian  dawn,  a  strange  and  sudden 
transformation  had  passed  over  Rome.  Instead  of  a  people 
wild  with  pleasure,  laughing,  screaming,  joking  like  childi'en, 
feasting,  dancing,  running  about,  from  mere  lightness  of  heart ; 
in  the  place  of  fairs,  theatres,  and  booths  in  the  open  streets, 
instead  of  the  public  gardens  and  walks  crowded  with  parti- 
coloured masquers,  full  of  sportive  pranks,  and  decked  out  with 
every  vagary  and  grotesque  freak  of  costume,  you  saw  a  city 
quiet  and  silent  as  the  grave,  yet  full  of  human  forms;  you 
heard  nothing  but  the  toUing  of  bells  and  the  faint  echo  of 
solemn  chants.  The  houses  and  churches  were  hung  with 
black ;  the  gay  tapestries  and  silks,  the  theatres,  the  play-actors, 
and  the  gay  dresses,  had  all  vanished,  and  in  their  place  the 
Btreets  were  full  of  cowled  and  silent  penitents.     They  walked 


356  JOHN  INGLESANT  j  [chap.  XXXI. 

with  downcast  and  pallid  faces ;  if  you  spoke  to  them  they  did 
not  answer,  but  gazed  upon  you  with  wondering  eyes.  ]\Ien 
and  women  alike  wore  the  black  gown  and  hood  of  penance, 
and  from  the  proudest  noble  to  the  poorest  peasant,  thronged 
into  the  Churches  and  received  alike  the  emblem  of  their 
common  fate — the  ashes  and  dust  from  whence  they  came,  and 
to  which  they  would  retm-n. 

Before  the  masked  ball,  exhausted  in  health  by  the  long 
confinement  in  the  Conclave,  and  tormented  in  mind  by  dis- 
appointed desire  and  by  accusing  conscience,  Inglesant  had 
been  sinking  into  almost  as  great  misery  as  that  which  he  had 
endm-ed  before  he  came  to  Rome.  The  perils  and  terror  that 
had  entered  unbidden  among  the  guests  during  that  night  of 
revelry  had  worked  a  marvellous  change  upon  him,  and  he 
awoke  from  a  species  of  trance,  which  had  lasted  two  days, 
with  his  spirits  cleared  and  strengthened.  He  was,  in  fact, 
like  a  man  whom  a  violent  fever  has  just  left,  languid  in  body, 
but  with  a  mind  at  rest  and  in  peace,  with  the  wild  dreams 
and  visions  of  delirium  gone.  The  earth  seems,  at  least  to  him, 
calm  and  peaceful,  full  of  voices  of  prayer  and  strains  of  peni- 
tential song.  He  looks  out  upon  life  languidly,  it  is  true,  but 
with  a  friendly,  pleased  countenance,  as  upon  a  well-known 
landscape  recalling  happy  days.  So  it  was  with  Inglesant, 
that,  the  wild  riot  of  the  Carnival  being  over,  the  peace  of 
Lent  began  within  his  soul.  The  blow  that  had  been  struck 
at  his  life  restored  him  to  life,  and  took  away  the  superstitious 
dread  that  was  gradually  consuming  his  reason.  He  had  met 
his  brother's  mm-derer,  not  alone  in  some  solitary  place  and 
picked  time,  planned  before  with  dialiolic  purpose  by  the  enemy 
of  mankind,  but  in  a  crowd,  and  as  it  seemed  by  chance.  He 
had  himself  been  passive,  and  urged  by  no  demoniac  prompting 
to  some  terrible  act  of  vengeance ;  still  more,  his  enemy  had 
failed,  miraculously,  as  it  seemed  to  him.  Surely,  then,  his 
fears  had  been  in  vain;  he  was  not  delivered  over  to  Satan, 
nay,  probably  the  Lord  Himself  still  regarded  him  with  com- 
passion, still  watched  over  and  defended  his  life.  Some  woik 
was  doubtless  reserved  for  him  to  do ;  for  him,  living  always  on 
the  verge  of  delirium,  whom  a  little  extra  pressure  upon  the 
brain -nerve  might  at  any  moment  estrange  altogether  from 
reason,  and  deprive  of  intellect  and  of  intercourse  with  men. 
For  such  as  he,  nevertheless,  under  such  protection,  what  might 


CHAP.  XXXI.]  A  ROMANCE.  357 

not  yet  be  possible  1  The  dews  of  the  Divine  Grace  cool  the 
fevered  brain  more  surely  than  any  cordial,  and  soften  and 
Avater  the  parched  and  thirsty  heart.  The  pleasant  Italian 
March  day  was  soft  and  balmy  as  the  loveliest  day  of  June  in 
England.  The  scent  of  jasmin  and  Daphne  flowers  filled  the 
air ;  soft  showers  fell  at  intervals  over  the  garden  slopes  of  that 
part  of  Rome ;  the  breath  of  Zephyr  swept  sweetness  into  the 
weary  sense.  Let  him  join  the  hooded  throng  of  penitents  ;  let 
him,  dust  and  ashes,  snatched  it  may  be  "  e  Jiarama  "  from  the 
very  flames,  yet  still  by  the  grace  of  God  in  his  right  mind, 
take  his  ashes  with  a  grateful  heart. 

For  the  appearance,  amid  the  chaos  of  his  life,  of  a  guiding 
Divine  Hand,  delightfiil  as  it  is  to  any  man,  must  be  unspeak- 
ably so  to  him  who,  to  the  difficulties,  sufficiently  great,  which 
ordinarily  beset  a  man  in  his  path  through  life,  adds  this  over- 
whelming one — the  imminent  chance  at  any  moment  of  losing 
consciousness  altogether,  with  the  power  of  thought  and  choice 
of  seeing  objects  rightly,  and  of  self-control  and  self-command. 
How  eagerly  one  to  whom  life  is  complicated  in  such  sort  as 
this  must  welcome  a  Divine  guidance  may  easily  be  seen — one 
who  otherwise  is  wandering  among  a  phantasmagoria  of  objects, 
among  which  he  must,  so  far  as  his  wavering  consciousness 
allows  him,  and  for  the  moment  that  consciousness  may  remain 
his  own,  shape  his  course  so  as  to  avoid  ruin. 

In  the  fresh  morning  air,  full  of  delicious  warmth  and 
sweetness,  and  with  this  angelic  messenger  leading  his  soui, 
Inglesant  went  out.'  He  had  no  suffacient  motive  to  take  him 
to  any  particular  Chiu-ch ;  but  chance  or  some  nobler  power 
directed  that  he  should  turn  his  steps  to  the  right  in  passing 
into  the  Via  di  S.  Giovanni,  and  following  the  crowd  of 
penitents,  should  arrive  at  the  portico  of  the  Church  of  the 
Lateran. 

The  space  in  front  of  the  magnificent  fagade  was  crowded 
with  draped  forms,  and  the  wail  of  the  rare  organ  music  reached 
the  outer  perfumed  air.  The  marble  pavement  of  the  interior, 
precious  beyond  calculation,  was  thronged  with  the  dark  crowd, 
and  the  costly  marble  of  the  walls  and  tombs  was  streaked  and 
veiled  by  the  wreaths  of  incense  which  lingered  in  the  building. 
The  loAV  chanting  and  the  monotonous  accompaniment  of  the 
organs  filled  the  Church,  and  liigh  over  the  altar,  brilliant  with 
a  thousand  lights,  flashed  the  countless  gems  of  the  wonderful 


358  JOHN  INGLESANT  t  [OHAP.  XXXL 

taberna?le,  and  the  Coena  of  plate  of  inestimable  cost.  On 
either  side  the  gilded  brass  of  the  four  columns  of  the  Emperor 
Titus,  brought  from  Jerusalem  itself,  reflected  back  the  altar 
lights ;  and  beset  with  precious  stones  where  the  body  of  the 
Lord  once  had  hung,  was  evident  to  all  beholders  the  very 
wood  of  the  Holy  Cross. 

As  Inglesant  entered,  the  ashes  had  been  sprinkled  three 
times  with  holy  water,  and  the  clouds  of  incense  gradually  rose 
over  the  kneeling  crowd,  as  the  people  began  to  receive  the 
ashes  upon  their  foreheads,  thronging  up  in  silence  and  order. 
At  the  same  time  the  choir  began  to  sing  the  Antiphons,  accom- 
panied by  the  heavenly  music  of  the  matchless  organs,  and 
penetrating  by  their  distinct  articulation  the  remotest  corners 
of  the  Church. 

"Immutemur  habitu,"  they  began,  "let  us  change  our 
garments ;  in  ashes  and  sackcloth  let  us  fast  and  lament  before 
the  Lord.  Because,"  and  the  pealing  anthem  rose  in  ecstatic 
triumph  to  the  emblazoned  roof,  "plenteous  in  mercy  to  forgive 
our  sins  is  this  God  of  ours." 

"  Ah  !  yes,"  thought  Inglesant,  "let  us  change  our  garments ; 
these  dark  robes  that  seem  ashes  and  sackcloth,  may  they  not 
be  the  chosen  garment  of  the  marriage  supper  of  the  King  ? 
Clothed  and  in  one's  right  mind,  by  the  heavenly  mercy  we 
already  walk  the  celestial  pavement,  and  hear  the  pealing 
anthems  of  the  angelic  choir." 

"Emendemus  in  melius,"  the  anthem  went  on,  "let  us 
amend  for  the  better  in  that  in  which  we  have  ignorantly 
sinned — ne  subito  prseoccupati  die  mortis,  quseramus  spatium 
pcenitentise,  et  in  venire  non  possimus." 

The  mighty  voice,  as  of  God  Himself,  seemed  to  single  out 
and  speak  to  Inglesant  alone,  "  Lest  suddenly  overtaken  by  the 
day  of  death."  Ah  !  who  so  well  as  he  knew  what  that  meant, 
who  so  lately  as  he  had  stood  face  to  face  with  the  destroyer  ? 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

As  the  chanting  of  the  Antiphon  continued,  he  reached  the 
steps  of  the  high  altar,  and  in  his  turn  knelt  to  receive  the 
ashes  upon  his  brow. 

In  a  pause  of  the  anthem  the  chanting  ceased,  and  the 
organs  played  a  slow  movement  in  the  interval.  Nothing  was 
heard  but  the  monotonous  undertone  of  the  priests. 

Ab  Inglesant  kndt  upon  the  marble  an  oveipowering  sense 


CHAP,  xxxir.]  A  ROMANCK  359 

of  helplessness  filled  his  soul,  so  worthless  and  fragile  he  seemed 
to  himself  before  the  Eternal  Existence,  that  the  idea  of  punish- 
ment and  penitence  was  lost  in  the  sense  of  utter  nothingness. 

"  Ah  !  Lord  God,"  he  thought,  "  shattered  in  mind  and 
brain  I  throw  myself  on  Thee ;  without  Thee  I  am  lost  in  the 
vortex  of  the  Universe ;  my  intellect  is  lost  except  it  steadies 
itself  upon  the  idea  of  Thee.  Without  Thee  it  has  no  existence. 
How  canst  Thou  be  angry  with  that  which  is  not  ?" 

He  bowed  his  head  in  utter  prostration  of  spirit  to  receive 
the  ashes. 

"Memento,  homo,"  the  priest  began — ah!  surely  it  must 
be  easy  to  remember  that,  "  quia  pulvis  es " 

Inglesant  heard  no  more.  A  sudden  thrill  of  earth,  like 
the  famihar  scent  of  flowers  to  a  dying  man,  passed  through 
him,  and  he  lifted  up  his  eyes.  Opposite  to  him  across  the 
corner  of  the  altar  steps  knelt  Laiuretta,  her  lustrous  eyes  full 
of  tears  fixed  upon  him  with  an  inexpressible  tenderne^  and 
interest.  His  eyes  met  hers  for  an  instant,  then  he  dropped 
his  head  again  before  the  priest ;  but  the  thought  and  presence 
of  heaven  was  gone  from  him,  and  nothing  but  the  roses  and 
loves  of  earth  remained. 

He  rose  from  his  knees.  The  throng  of  penitents  surrounded 
him,  and  he  suffered  himself  to  be  swept  onward,  down  the  long 
nave,  till  he  reached  the  door  through  which  the  crowd  was 
pouring  out.     There,  however,  he  stopped. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

The  old  Duke  of  Umbria  was  dying.  He  lay  clothed,  as  he 
had  once  said  to  Inglesant,  in  the  "  Angelica  Vestis,"  the  sacred 
wafer  in  his  mouth.  Below  in  the  Palace  Chapel,  in  the  great 
Duomo,  in  Rome  itself,  masses  were  being  said  day  by  day,  and 
the  ineffable  Host  raised  to  Heaven,  in  intercessory  prayer  for 
this  man's  souL  If  any  deserved  an  unruffled  passage  over  the 
dark  river,  he  did.  He  had  sought  long  and  earnestly  to  find 
a  more  excellent  way,  and  had  shrunk  from  no  effort  nor  painful 
mortification  if  he  might  at  last  walk  in  it  when  foimd.  He 
had  resigned  himself  and  all  vhat  he  possessed  in  implicit 
obedience  to  the  doctrine  and  the  See  of  Rome.      He  had 


360  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [chap,  xxxn 

crowned  a  blameless  and  beneficent  life  by  acts  of  unparalleled 
devotion  and  piety;  nevertheless,  an  unruflSed  passage  he  did 
not  have.  The  futm-e  was  dark  and  full  of  dread,  and  he 
suffered  all  the  terrors  of  the  grave  with  a  troubled  mind. 
Lying  thus  in  didl  misery  of  body,  and  in  mental  apprehension 
and  unrest,  he  bethought  himself  of  Inglesant.  Having  sur- 
rendered himself,  soul  and  body,  into  the  hands  of  those  who 
stood  about  his  bed,  he  knew  that  it  was  useless  to  let  his 
mind  wander  after  any  of  those  unauthorized  teachers  from 
whom  in  past  days  he  had  sought  instruction ;  but  in  Inglesant 
he  had,  for  the  first  time,  met  a  man  who,  walking  to  all 
appearance  in  the  straitest  paths  of  the  Catholic  Church,  seemed 
to  possess  a  freedom  of  spirit  greater  than  the  Sectaries  them- 
selves could  boast.  Even  when  suffering  the  rebukes  of  an 
accusing  conscience,  and  the  bewilderment  of  a  disordered  brain, 
there  was  in  Inglesant  an  unfettered  possession  of  the  things  of 
this  life,  and  even  of  the  life  to  come,  which  had  astonished 
the  old  man,  who,  unaccused  by  his  own  conscience,  was  yet  so 
confined  and  hampered  in  this  world,  and  in  such  continual 
dread  of  that  other  which  was  shortly  to  be  revealed  to  him. 

He  expressed  to  his  director  a  wish  that  Inglesant  might  be 
sent  for.  It  was  impossible  to  deny  him  this  request,  even  had 
it  been  thought  desirable.  Inglesant  was  a  trusted  confidant 
of  the  dominant  Society  of  Rome,  a  fiivourite  of  the  new  Pope, 
and  had,  besides,  been  influential,  as  was  believed,  in  obtaining 
that  crowning  triumph — the  cession  of  the  Duchy  to  the  Papal 
See.  A  messenger  was  therefore  despatched  to  Rome  request- 
ing his  immediate  presence.  The  summons  found  him  with 
Lauretta  and  her  father,  engaged  in  preparations  for  his  speedy 
marriage. 

This  connection  was  regarded  with  great  favour  by  Don 
Agostino  and  most  of  his  friends ;  but  was  looked  upon,  as  far 
as  they  condescended  to  notice  it  at  all,  with  suspicion  by  the 
heads  of  the  Jesuit  Society. 

They  were  beginning  to  dread  the  influence  of  Molinos,  and 
Inglesant  had  already  incurred  some  suspicion  by  his  intimacy 
with  the  Spaniard.  The  Pope  was  supposed  to  be  not  altogether 
opposed  to  the  new  doctrine,  and  the  Jesuits  were  unwilling  to 
lose  an  obedient  servant,  who  might  be  useful  to  them.  There 
was,  however,  no  sufl&cient  reason  in  this  why  he  should  be 
forbidden  to  visit  the  old  Duke,  who  was  certainly  dying,  and 


«HAP.  XXXII.]  A  ROMANCE.  361 

therefore  beyond  the  reach  of  dangerous  influence  ;  and  Ingle- 
saut,  remembermg  the  interest  he  had  felt  in  the  Duke,  and 
the  favours  which  he  had  lavished  upon  him,  hastened  to  set 
out. 

When  he  arrived  in  Umbria  he  found  the  Duke  had  rallied 
a  little,  and  he  received  him  with  the  warmest  expressions  of 
delight.  He  was  never  content  save  when  he  was  in  the  room, 
and  his  very  presence  seemed  to  restore  strength  and  life  to  the 
exhausted  old  man.  Those  who  watched  about  his  bed  in  the 
interests  of  Rome,  if  they  had  felt  any  apprehensions  of  the 
result  of  Inglesant's  visit,  were  speedily  reassured,  for  the  Duke 
did  not  seem  desirous  of  conversing  upon  religious  matters  with 
him,  and,  indeed,  rather  avoided  tliem.  He  seemed  to  cling  to 
Inglesaut  as  to  the  only  remaining  link  to  that  world  which  he 
was  so  soon  to  leave,  and  to  take  a  strange  pleasure  in  furnish- 
ing him  with  those  appliances  of  earthly  enjoyment  which  had 
until  now  long  ceased  to  be  of  interest  to  himself.  Among 
other  gifts  he  insisted  on  his  accepting  a  suit  of  superb  armour 
which  had  been  made  expressly  for  his  idolized  son.  In  this 
suit,  in  which  he  caused  Inglesant  to  be  arrayed,  he  declared 
that  he  well  represented  the  patron  saint  of  his  nation,  St. 
George  of  England,  and  pleased  himself  with  the  reflection  that 
^he-1ief "ivith'whlcli  he  had  endowed  Inglesant  bore  the  name 
of  the  same  saint. 

"You  are  il  Cavaliere  di  San  Giorgio,"  he  said  to  his 
favourite,  as  he  stood  by  his  couch,  sheathed  in  the  superb  but 
useless  and  fantastic  armour  of  the  seventeenth  century,  with 
cuirass,  greaves,  and  cuisses  of  poUshed  and  jewelled  metal, 
worn  over  the  ordinary  dress,  and  combined  with  the  lace  and 
velvet  w^hich  ornamented  the  whole.  It  is  true  that  the  steel 
plates  were  covered  wdth  silver  and  gold  chasing  of  arabesques 
not  of  the  most  Christian  type,  and  the  perfect  sword-blade  was 
engraved  with  hieroglyphics  not  of  the  most  saintly  kind ; 
nevertheless  Inglesant,  as  he  stood,  did  certainly  resemble  some- 
what closely  a  splendid  renaissance  St.  George. 

"You  are  11  Cavaliere  di  San  Giorgio,"  said  the  Duke, 
"  and  you  must  wear  that  armour  when  you  go  to  meet  your 
bride.  I  have  arranged  a  train  worthy  of  so  illustrious  a  bride- 
groom." 

Inglesant's  marriage  had  taken  a  great  hold  in  the  imagina* 
tion  of  the  dying  man,  and  his  mind,  to  the  surprise  of  those 


362  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [cHAP.  XXXII. 

who  had  known  him  longest,  seemed  to  dwell  entirely  upon 
nuptials  and  festivals.  The  strain  and  terror  which  his  spirit 
had  suffered  for  so  long  had  probably  done  their  work,  and, 
like  as  on  a  harpsichord  with  a  snapped  string,  the  set  purpose 
and  composure  was  lost,  and  nothing  but  fragments  of  fantasias 
could  be  played.  That  magic  influence  of  the  wonderful  ducal 
palace  which  Inglesant  had  been  conscious  of  at  his  first  visit, 
and  of  which  the  Duke  had  seemed  hitherto  altogether  regard- 
less, at  the  last  moments  of  his  life  appeared  to  assert  its  power 
and  force ;  and  what  to  others  seemed  mere  dotage  appeared  to 
Inglesant  like  a  wintry  gleam  of  mysterious  light  that  might  be 
the  earnest  of  a  happier  time,— a  return  from  the  dark  regions 
of  superstitious  fear  to  the  simple  delights  of  common  humau 
life.  The  sway  of  this  strange  house  was  as  powerful  over 
Inglesant  himself  as  it  had  been  before  ;  but  he  now  stood  upon 
liigher  ground  than  he  had  done  formerly.  The  events  which 
had  occurred  in  the  meantime  had  not  been  entirely  without 
efiect.  His  triumph  over  the  temptation  of  the  flesh  in  the 
forest  pavilion  had  secured  to  him  a  higher  place  in  the  spiritual 
walk,  and  the  escape  from  the  assassin's  dagger  had  sobered 
his  spirit  and  indescribably  touched  his  heart.  The  "  Kings," 
Courts,"  of  which  this  house  was  but  a  type, —  the  Italian 
world  in  which  he  had  lived  so  long, — had,  therefore,  now  less 
power  than  ever  to  crush  Inglesant's  religious  instinct ;  but  it 
gave  it  a  certain  colour,  a  sort  of  renaissance  Christianity,  which 
bore  a  likeness  to  the  character  of  the  art-world  in  which  it  had 
grown  up, — a  Christianity  of  florid  ornament  and  of  somewhat 
fantastic  issues. 

As  the  Duke  gradually  became  weaker,  and  seemed  every 
day  to  be  on  tlie  point  of  death,  he  became  the  more  anxious 
that  Inglesant's  marriage  should  be  completed,  and  at  last 
insisted  upon  his  delaying  his  return  to  Rome  no  longer.  Ingle- 
sant, M^ho  expected  almost  hour  by  hour  the  Duke's  decease, 
would  have  been  content  to  wait;  but  the  dying  man  would 
take  no  denial.  He  pleased  himself  with  giving  orders  for 
Inglesant's  train,  and  ordered  his  favourite  page,  an  Austrian 
boy,  to  accompany  him,  and  to  return  immediately  when  the 
marriage  was  celebrated,  that  he  might  receive  the  fullest 
description  of  the  particulars  of  the  event. 

It  was  long  before  sunrise  that  Inglesant  set  out,  accom- 
panied by  his  train,  hoping  to  cross  the  mountains  before  the 


CHAP.  XXXII.]  A  ROMANCE.  363 

heat  began.  His  company  consisted  of  several  men-at-arms, 
with  their  grooms  and  horse  boys,  and  the  Austrian  page. 
They  ascended  the  mountains  in  the  earlier  part  of  the  night, 
and  towards  dawn  they  reached  a  flat  plain.  The  night  had 
been  too  dark  to  allow  them  to  see  the  steep  and  narrow  defiles, 
full  of  oaks  and  beech  ;  and  as  they  passed  over  the  dreary  plain 
in  the  white  mist,  theii'  figures  seemed  vast  and  indistinct  in 
the  dim  Hght,  but  now,  as  the  streaks  of  the  dawn  grew  brighter 
in  the  east  behind  them,  they  coidd  see  the  fir  trees  clothing  the 
distant  slopes,  and  here  and  there  one  of  the  higher  summits 
still  covered  mth  white  snow.  The  scene  was  cold  and  dead 
and  dreary  as  the  grave.  A  heavy  mist  hung  over  the  moimtain 
plain,  and  an  icy  lake  lay  black  and  cold  beneath  the  morning 
sky.  As  they  reached  the  crest  of  the  hill  the  mist  rose,  stuTcd 
by  a  little  breeze  at  sunrise,  and  the  gorges  of  the  descent  lay 
clear  before  them.  The  sun  arose  behind  them,  gilding  the 
moimtain  tops,  and  tracing  streaks  and  shades  of  colour  on  the 
rising  mist  sparkling  with  glittering  dew-drops ;  while  dark  and 
solemn  beneath  them  lay  the  pine-clothed  ravines  and  sloping 
valleys,  with  here  and  there  a  rocky  peak ;  and  farther  down 
still  the  woods  and  hills  gave  place  at  last  to  the  plain  of  the 
Tiber,  at  present  dark  and  indistinguishable  in  the  night. 

As  the  sun  arose  behind  them  one  by  one  the  pine  ravines 
became  lighted,  and  the  snowy  summits,  soft  and  pink  with 
radiant  light,  stood  out  against  the  sky,  which  became  every 
instant  of  a  deeper  blue.  The  sunlight,  stealing  down  the  de- 
files and  calling  forth  into  distinct  shape  and  vision  tree  and 
rock  and  flashing  stream,  spread  itself  over  the  oak  woods  in 
the  valleys,  and  shone  at  last  upon  the  plain,  embossed  and 
radiant  with  wood  and  green  meadow,  and  marble  towers  and 
glistering  water — the  waters  of  the  Tiber  running  onwards 
towards  Eome.  Mysterious  forms  and  waves  of  light,  the 
creatm-es  of  the  morning  and  of  the  mist,  floated  before  the 
sight,  and  from  the  dark  fir  trees  murmurs  and  mutterings  of 
ethereal  life  fell  upon  the  ear.  Sudden  and  passionate  flushes 
of  colour  tinted  the  pine  woods  and  were  gone,  and  beneath  the 
branches  and  across  the  paths  fairy  lights  played  for  a  moment 
and  passed  away. 

The  party  halted  more  than  once,  but  it  was  necessary  to 
make  the  long  descent  before  the  heat  began,  and  they  com- 
menced carefully  to  pick  their  way  down  the  stony  mpuntain 


364  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [CHAP.  XXXIl. 

road,  whicli  wound  down  the  ravines  in  wild  unequal  paths. 
The  track,  now  precipitous,  now  almost  level,  took  them  round 
comers  and  masses  of  rock  sometimes  hanging  above  their  heads, 
revealing  continually  new  reaches  of  valley  and  new  defiles 
clothed  with  fir  and  oak.  Moimtain  flowers  and  trailing  ivy 
and  creeping  plants  hung  in  festoons  on  every  side,  lizards  ran 
across  the  path,  birds  fluttered  above  them  or  darted  into  the 
dark  recesses  where  the  mountain  brooks  were  heard ;  every- 
thing" sang  the  morning  psalm  of  life,  with  which,  from  field 
and  mountain  solitudes,  the  free  childi'en  of  nature  salute  the 
day. 

The  Austrian  boy  felt  the  beauty  of  the  scene,  and  broke 
out  into  singing. 

"  When  the  northern  gods,"  he  said  to  Inglesant,  "  rode  on 
their  chevisance  they  went  down  into  the  deep  valleys  singing 
magic  songs.  Let  us  into  this  dark  valley,  singing  magic  songs, 
also  go  down ;  who  knows  what  strange  and  hidden  deity,  since 
the  old  pagan  times  lost  and  forgotten,  we  may  find  among  the 
tiark  fir  dingles  and  the  laurel  shades'?" 

And  he  began  to  sing  some  love  ditty. 

Inglesant  did  not  hear  him.  The  beauty  of  the  scene, 
ethereal  and  unreal  in  its  loveliness,  following  upon  the  long 
dark  mountain  ride,  his  sleepless  nights  and  strange  fimiliarity 
with  approaching  death  by  the  couch  of  the  old  Duke,  confused 
his  senses,  and  a  presentiment  of  impending  fate  filled  his  mind. 
The  recollection  of  his  brother  rose  again  in  his  remembrance, 
distinct  and  present  as  in  life ;  and  more  than  once  he  fancied 
that  he  heard  his  voice,  as  the  cry  of  some  mountain  beast,  or  sound 
of  moaning  trees,  came  up  the  pass.  No  other  foreshadowing 
than  this  very  imperfect  one  warned  him  of  the  approaching 
crisis  of  his  fife. 

The  Sim  was  fully  up,  and  the  light  already  brilliant  and 
intense,  when  they  approached  a  projecting  point  where  the 
slope  of  wood  ended  in  a  tower  of  rock  jutting  upon  the  road. 
The  path  by  which  they  approached  it  was  narrow  and  ragged, 
but  beyond  the  rock  the  ground  spread  itself  out,  and  the  path 
was  carried  inward  towards  the  right,  having  the  sloping  hillside 
on  the  one  hand,  covered  with  scattered  oaks,  while,  on  the 
other,  a  slip  of  ground  separated  it  from  the  ravine.  At  the 
timiing  of  the  road,  where  the  opening  valley  lay  before  them 
as  they  reached  the  corner,  face  to  face  with  Inglesant  as  he 


CHAP,  xxxil.]  A  ROMANCE.  365 

checked  his  horse,  was  the  Italian,  the  inquisitive  stranger  of 
the  theatre  at  Florence,  the  intruder  into  the  Conclave,  the 
masque  of  the  Carnival  ball,  the  assassin  of  the  Corso — that 
Malvolti  who  had  treacherously  murdered  his  brother  and 
sought  his  own  life.  Alone  and  weary,  his  clothes  worn  and 
threadbare,  he  came  toiling  up  the  pass.  Inglesant  reined  in 
his  horse  suddenly,  a  strange  and  fierce  light  in  his  eyes  and 
face.  The  Italian  started  back  like  some  wild  creatm-e  of  the 
forest  brought  suddenly  to  bay,  a  terrified  cry  broke  from  him, 
and  he  looked  wildly  round  as  if  intending  flight.  The  nature 
of  the  ground  caught  him  as  in  a  trap ;  on  the  one  hand  the 
sloping  hillside  steep  and  open,  on  the  other  tangled  rugged 
ground,  slightly  rising  between  the  road  and  the  precipice,  cut 
ofi"  nil  hope  of  sudden  flight.  He  looked  wildly  round  for  a 
moment,  then,  when  the  horsemen  came  round  the  rocky  wall 
and  halted  behind  their  leader,  his  eyes  came  back  to  Inglesant's 
face,  and  he  marked  the  smile  upon  his  lips  and  in  his  eyes,  and 
saAv  his  hand  steal  downwards  to  the  hunting  piece  he  carried 
at  the  saddle ;  then  with  a  terrible  cry,  he  threw  himself  on  his 
knees  before  the  horse's  head,  and  begged  for  pity, — pity  and 
life. 

Inglesant  took  his  hand  from  his  weapon,  and  turning 
slightly  to  the  page  and  to  the  others  behind  him,  he  said, — 

"  This  man,  messeri,  is  a  murderer  and  a  villain,  steeped 
in  every  crime ;  a  cruel  secret  midnight  cut-throat  and  assassin  ; 
a  lurker  in  secret  corners  to  murder  the  innocent.  He  took 
my  brother,  a  noble  gentleman  whom  I  was  proud  to  follow, 
treacherously  at  an  advantage,  and  slew  him.  I  see  him  now 
before  me  lying  in  his  blood.  He  tried  to  take  my  life, — I, 
who  scarcely  even  knew  him, — in  the  streets  of  Rome.  Now 
he  begs  for  mercy,  what  say  you,  gentlemen  1  what  is  his  due  V* 

"Shoot  the  dog  through  the  head.  Hang  him  on  the 
nearest  tree.     Carry  him  into  Rome  and  torture  him  to  death." 

The  Italian  still  continued  on  his  knees,  his  hands  clasped 
before  him,  his  face  working  with  terror  and  agony  that  could 
not  be  disguised. 

"Mercy,  monsignore,"  he  cried.  "Mercy.  I  cannot,  1 
dare  not,  I  am  not  fit  to  die.  For  the  blessed  Host,  mon- 
signore, have  mercy — for  the  love  of  Jesu — for  the  sake  of  Jesu." 

As  he  said  these  last  words  Inglesant's  attitude  altered,  and 
the  cruel  light  faded  out  of  his  eyes.     His  hand  ceased  to  fiugei 


36fi  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [cHAP.  2XXII. 

the  carabine  at  his  saddle,  and  he  sat  still  upon  his  horse,  look- 
ing down  uijon  the  abject  wretch  before  him,  while  a  man  might 
count  fifty.  The  Italian  saw,  or  thought  he  saw,  that  his  judge 
was  inclining  to  mercy,  and  he  renewed  his  appeals  for  pity. 

"  For  the  love  of  the  crucifix,  monsignore ;  for  the  blessed 
Virgin's  sake." 

But  Inglesant  did  not  seem  to  hear  him.  He  turned  to  the 
horsemen  behind  him,  and  said, — 

"Take  him  up,  one  of  you,  on  the  crupper.  Search  him 
first  for  arras.  Another  keep  his  eye  on  him,  and  if  he  moves 
or  attempts  to  escape,  shoot  him  dead.  You  had  better  come 
quietly;"  he  continued,  "it  is  your  only  chance  for  life." 

Two  of  the  men-at-arms  dismoimted  and  searched  the 
prisoner,  but  found  no  arms  upon  him.  He  seemed  indeed  to 
be  in  the  greatest  distress  from  hunger  and  want,  and  his 
clothes  were  ragged  and  thin.  He  was  mounted  behind  one 
of  the  soldiers  and  closely  watched,  but  he  made  no  attempt  to 
escape,  and  indeed  appeared  to  have  no  strength  or  energy  for 
such  an  efi'ort. 

They  went  on  down  the  pass  for  about  an  Italian  league. 
The  country  became  more  thickly  wooded,  and  here  and  there 
on  the  hillsides  patches  of  corn  appeared,  and  once  or  twice  in 
a  sheltered  spot  a  few  vines.  At  length,  on  the  broad  shoulder 
of  the  hill  round  which  the  path  wound,  they  saw  before  them 
a  few  cottages,  and  above  them,  on  the  hillside,  in  a  position 
that  commanded  the  distant  pass  till  it  opened  on  the  plain, 
was  a  Chapel,  the  bell  of  which  had  just  ceased  ringing  for 
mass. 

Inglesant  turned  his  horse's  head  up  the  narrow  stony  path, 
and  when  the  gate  was  reached,  he  dismoimted  and  entered  the 
Chapel,  followed  by  his  train.  The  Cappella  had  apparently 
been  built  of  the  remains  of  some  temple  or  old  Eoman  house, 
for  many  of  the  stones  of  the  front  were  carved  in  bold  relief. 
It  was  a  small  narrow  building,  and  possessed  no  furniture  save 
the  altar  and  a  rude  pulpit  built  of  stones ;  but  behind  the  altar, 
painted  on  the  plaster  of  the  wall,  was  the  rood  or  crucifix,  the 
size  of  life.  Who  the  artist  had  been  cannot  now  be  told ;  it 
might  have  been  the  pupil  of  some  great  master,  who  had 
caught  something  of  the  master's  skill,  or,  perhaps,  in  the  old 
time,  some  artist  had  come  up  the  pass  from  Borgo  san  Sepolcro, 
and  had  painted  it  for  the  love  of  his  art  and  of  the  Blessed 


CHAP.  XXXII.]  A  ROMANCE.  367 

Virgin ;  but,  whoever  had  done  it,  it  was  well  done,  and  it  gave 
a  sanctity  to  the  little  Chapel,  and  possessed  an  influence  of 
which  the  villagers  were  not  unconscious,  and  of  which  they 
were  even  proud. 

The  mass  had  commenced  some  short  time  as  the  train 
entered,  and  such  few  women  and  peasants  as  were  present 
turned  in  surprise. 

Inglesant  knelt  upon  the  steps  before  the  altar,  and  the 
men-at-arms  upon  the  floor  of  the  Chapel,  the  two  who  guarded 
the  prisoner  keeping  close  behind  their  leader. 

The  priest,  who  was  an  old  and  simiDle-looking  countryman, 
continued  his  office  without  stopping ;  but  when  he  had  received 
the  sacred  elements  himself,  he  turned,  and,  influenced  probably 
by  his  appearance  and  by  his  position  at  the  altar,  he  offered 
Inglesant  the  Sacrament.  He  took  it,  and  the  priest,  turning 
again  to  the  altar,  finished  the  mass. 

Then  Inglesant  rose,  and  when  the  priest  turned  again  he 
was  standing  before  the  altar  with  his  di'awn  sword  held  length- 
wise across  his  hands. 

"My  Father,"  he'said,  "  I  am  the  Cavaliere  di  San  Giorgio, 
and  as  I  came  across  the  mountains  this  morning  on  my  way 
to  Rome,  I  met  my  mortal  foe,  the  murderer  of  my  brother,  a 
wretch  whose  life  is  forfeit  by  every  law,  either  of  earth  or 
heaven,  a  guilty  monster  steeped  in  every  crime.  Him,  as 
soon  as  I  had  met  him, — sent  by  this  lonely  and  imtrodden 
way  as  it  seems  to  me  by  the  Lord's  hand, — I  thought  to  crush 
at  once,  as  I  would  a  venomous  beast,  though  he  is  worse  than 
any  beast.  But,  my  Father,  he  has  appealed  from  me  to  the 
adorable  Name  of  Jesus,  and  I  cannot  touch  him.  But  he  will 
not  escape.  I  give  him  over  to  the  Lord.  I  give  up  my  sword 
into  the  Lord's  hands,  that  He  may  work  my  vengeance  upon 
him  as  it  seems  to  Him  good.  Henceforth  he  is  safe  from 
earthly  retribution,  but  the  Divine  Powers  are  just.  Take  this 
sword,  reverend  Father,  and  let  it  lie  upon  the  altar  beneath 
the  Christ  Himself;  and  I  will  make  an  oflPering  for  daily 
masses  for  my  brother's  soul." 

The  priest  took  the  sword,  and  kneeling  before  the  altar, 
placed  it  thereon  like  a  man  acting  in  a  dream. 

He  was  one  of  those  child-like  peasant-priests  to  whom  the 
great  w^orld  was  unknown,  and  to  whom  his  momitain  solitudes 
were  peopled  as  much  by  the  saints  and  angels  of  his  breviary 


368  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [CHAP.  XXXII. 

as  by  the  peasants  who  shared  with  him  the  solitudes  and  the 
legends  that  gave  to  these  mountain  fastnesses  a  mysterious 
awe.  To  such  a  man  as  this  it  seemed  nothing  strange  that 
the  blessed  St.  George  himself,  in  jewelled  armour,  should 
stand  before  the  altar  in  the  mystic  morning  light,  his  shining 
sword  in  his  hand. 

He  turned  again  to  Inglesant,  who  had  knelt  down  once 
more. 

"It  is  well  done,  monsignore,"  he  said,  "as  all  that  thou 
doest  doubtless  is  most  well.  The  sword  shall  remain  here  as 
thou  sayest,  and  the  Lord  doubtless  will  work  His  blessed  will. 
But  I  entreat,  monsignore,  thy  intercession  for  me,  a  poor 
sinful  man ;  and  when  thou  returnest  to  thy  place,  and  seest 
again  the  Lord  Jesus,  that  thou  wilt  remind  Him  of  His  im- 
worthy  priest.     Amen." 

Inglesant  scarcely  heard  what  he  said,  and  certainly  did 
not  understand  it.  His  sense  was  confused  by  what  had 
happened,  and  by  the  sudden  overmastering  impulse  upon 
which  he  had  acted.  He  moved  as  in  a  dream ;  nothing  seemed 
to  come  strange  to  him,  nothing  startled  him,  and  he  took 
slight  heed  of  what  passed.  He  placed  his  embroidered  purse, 
heavy  with  gold,  in  the  priest's  hand,  and  in  his  excitement 
totally  forgot  to  name  his  brother,  for  whose  repose  masses 
were  to  be  said. 

He  signed  to  his  men  to  release  the  prisoner,  and,  his 
trumpets  soimding  to  horse  before  the  Chapel  gate,  he  momited 
and  rode  on  down  the  pass. 

But  his  visit  was  not  forgotten,  and  long  afterwards,  perhaps 
even  to  the  present  day,  popular  tradition  took  the  story  up, 
and  related  that  once,  when  the  priest  of  the  mountain  Chapel 
was  a  very  holy  man,  the  blessed  St.  George  himself,  in  shining 
armom-,  came  across  the  moimt^ins  one  morning  very  early,  and 
himself  partook  of  the  Sacrament  and  all  his  train;  and  ap- 
pealed triumphantly  to  the  magic  sword — set  with  gold  and 
precious  stones — ihat  lay  upon  the  altar  from  that  morning, 
by  virtue  of  which  no  harm  can  befall  the  village,  no  storm 
strike  it,  and,  above  all,  no  pillage  of  armed  men  or  any  violence 
can  occur. 

The  Austrian  boy  returned  to  Umbria^with  his  story  of  the 
marriage  ;  but  the  old  Duke  never  heard  it.  No  sooner  had 
Inglesant  left  him  than  his  depression  and  despair  retui'ned ;  he 


CHAP.  xj?xiii.]  A  ROMANCR  369 

loathed  the  sight  of  the  day,  and  of  the  costly  palace  in  which 
he  lived ;  the  gay  arts  and  the  devised  fancies  by  which  men 
have  soiiglit  to  lure  happiness  became  intolerable  to  him ;  and, 
ill  as  he  was,  he  caused  himself  to  be  removed  to  the  Castel 
Durante,  amid  the  lonely  mountain  ravines,  to  abide  his  end. 
As  Inglesant  bowed  beneath  the  care-cloth — the  fine  linen 
cloth  laid  over  the  newly-married  in  the  Church, — kneeling  till 
mass  was  ended,  with  his  heart  full  of  love  and  brightness  and 
peace,  the  last  of  the  house  of  Revere — "worn  out,"  says  the 
chronicler,  with  a  burst  of  unusual  candour,  "  by  priestly 
torments" — breathed  his  last,  and  went  to  another  world, 
where,  it  may  be  hoped,  sacrifice  and  devotion  are  better 
rewarded  than  they  are  here,  and  superstitious  terrors  are 
unknown. 


CHAPTER   XXXIII. 

The  CasteUo  di  San  Giorgio,  or,  as  it  might  more  properly 
have  been  called,  the  "  Casa "  or  Villa  di  San  Giorgio,  was 
buitt  upon  the  summit  of  a  small  conical  hill,  amid  the  sloping 
bashes  of  the  Apennines,  at  a  part  of  their  long  range  where  the 
summits  were  low  and  green.  In  that  delightful  region,  the 
cultivation  and  richness  of  the  plain  is  united  to  the  wilclness 
and  beauty  of  the  hills.  The  heat  is  tempered  in  the  shady 
valleys  and  under  the  thick  woods.  A  delicious  moistm-e  and 
soft  haze  hangs  about  these  dewy,  grassy  places,  which  the  sun 
has  power  to  warm  and  gladden,  but  not  to  parch.  Flowers 
of  every  hue  cover  the  ground  beneath  the  oaks  and  elms. 
Nightingales  sing  in  the  thickets  of  wild  rose  and  clematis, 
and  the  groves  of  laurel  and  of  the  long-leaved  olives  are 
crowded  with  small  creatures  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  life  and 
warmth.  Little  brooks  and  rippling  streams,  half  hidden  by 
the  tangled  thickets,  and  turned  from  their  courses  by  the 
mossy  rocks,  flow  down  from  the  hill  ravines,  as  joyful  and 
clear  as  in  that  old  time  when  each  was  the  care  of  some  pro- 
tecting nymph  or  rural  god.  In  the  waters  of  the  placid  lake 
are  reflected  the  shadows  of  the  hills,  and  the  tremuloiLS 
shimmer  of  waving  woods. 

In  this  favoured  region,  the  Villa  di  San  Giorgio  stood  upon 
its  leafy  hill-top,  set  in  the  background  of  the  mountains.     The 

2b 


370  JOHN  INGLESANT,  [CHAP.  XXXIII, 

steep  slope  was  terraced  here  and  there  in  patches  of  ground 
planted  with  fruit-trees,  and  at  the  foot,  towards  the  south,  a 
large  lake  slept  beneath  the  blue  sky,  its  shores  lined  with 
brushwood,  interspersed  here  and  there  with  grassy  slopes, 
where  the  orchis  and  hyacinth  and  narcissus  sprang  up  from 
the  green  rich  turf. 

Through  this  pastoral  land,  at  all  seasons  of  the  year, 
wandering  shepherds  with  their  flocks,  peasants  with  their 
cattle  and  dogs,  ladies  and  cavaliers  from  the  neighbouring 
villas,  woodmen,  vine-dressers,  fishermen  from  the  lake,  tra- 
versed the  leafy  stage,  and  diversified  the  scene  ;  but  when  the 
grape  was  fully  ripe,  and  the  long  year  was  crowned  at  last 
with  the  fatness  of  the  vintage,  a  joyous  age  of  rural  wealth 
and  jollity  seemed  for  a  time  to  fill  the  mellow,  golden-tinted 
land.  Then,  indeed,  wandering  amid  the  woods  and  rocks 
interspersed  with  vineyards  and  patches  of  yellow  wheat,  as 
you  met  the  loaded  wain,  or  came  upon  the  wine-j^ress,  trodden" 
by  laughing  girls  and  boys,  you  seemed  to  understand  the 
stories~of  the  ruraT  wanderings  of  the  gods,  for  you  met  with 
many  a  scene  to  which  it  might  well  be  fancied  that  they 
might  still  be  allured,  as  to  that  garden  at  the  foot  of  Mount 
Bermion  where  the  roses  grew.  The  gracious  gods  of  plenty 
still  filled  the  luscious  vats  ;  rustling  Zephyr  still  whispered 
love  among  the  flowers,  still  came  laden  with  the  ripening 
odours  of  the  fruit.  The  little  cherub  Loves  peeped  out  from 
behind  oak  stems  and  ruined  plinth  and  sculptured  frieze,  half 
hidden  among  roots  and  leaves. 

The  Castello  was  a  modern  building,  although  there  were 
ruins  in  one  of  the  courtyards  of  a  very  antique  date.  It  con- 
sisted of  three  or  four  lofty  blocks  of  buildings,  at  right  angles 
to  each  other,  covered  with  low,  red-tiled  roofs.  The  principal 
windows  were  in  the  upper  stories,  and  gave  light  to  large  and 
handsome  rooms,  from  which  on  all  sides  the  most  enchanting 
landscapes  satisfied  the  eye. 

The  weeks  that  succeeded  Inglesant's  marriage  grew  into 
months,  and  the  months  into  years,  in  this  delightful  scene. 
The  old  Count  spent  some  months  in  peaceful  satisfaction  with 
his  daughter  and  her  husband,  delighted  with  the  company  ot 
his  one  grandchild,  a  little  boy.  In  the  spacious  dining-saloon, 
with  its  cool  polished  floor,  it  was  a  pretty  sight  to  see  the  old, 
courteous  no'':)leman  tempting  the  child  with  the  ripest  fruit 


CHAP.  XXXIII.]       .  A  ROMANCE.  ,  371 

The  shaded  liglit  fell  upon  the  plate  and  yellow  ware  on  the 
table,  and  upon  the  old  cabinets  of  Italian  inarqueterie  against 
the  walls;  whilst  by  the  carved  mantelpiece  sat  the  pleased 
parents,  of  whom  it  ia  recorded  that  in  Eome  they  passed  for 
the  handsomest  pair  in  Italy.  In  this  way,  the  days  of  some 
three  sunny  summers  passed  away,  while  the  winters  were 
spent  in  the  Papal  city, 

But  this  Arcadian  life  was  not  lasting.  The  old  Count  was 
not  long  content  if  absent  from  city  life,  and  the  time  at  the 
Castello  hung  somewhat  heavily  upon  the  spirits  of  both  Ingle- 
sant  and  his  wife.  They  were  neither  of  them  fitted  by  pre- 
vious habits  and  education  for  a  retired  country  life  ;  but  the 
circumstance  which  outwardly  appeared  to  weigh  upon  Lau- 
retta's mind  was  uncertainty  concerning  her  brother's  fate. 
From  the  time  of  the  marriage  the  Cavaliere  had  disappeared, 
and  from  that  day  no  word  of  tidings  had  been  received  respect- 
ing him.  It  was  known  that  his  circumstances  were  desperate, 
and  the  danger  he  lay  under  from  secret  enemies  imminent. 
The  account  which  her  husband  had  given  her  of  the  condition 
in  which  he  had  seen  Malvolti  dwelt  in  her  imagination,  and 
she  brooded  over  the  idea  of  her  brother  in  a  similar  state  of 
destitution  and  misery.  It  seemed  probable  that,  had  he  been 
assassinated,  tidings  of  the  event  would  have  reached  his  family  ; 
and  if  alive,  it  was  strange  that  he  had  made  no  application  for 
assistance  to  those  who  were  so  well  able  and  so  willing  to 
render  it.  This  suspense  and  mystery  were  more  insupportable 
than  certainty  of  evil  would  have  been. 

The  characters  of  Inglesant  and  his  wife  were  of  such  a 
nature  as  most  effectively  to  produce  and  aggravate  this  sleepless 
uneasiness.  Upon  Lauretta's  lenient  and  gracious,  if  somewhat 
pleasure-loving  disposition,  the  impression  of  the  unkindness 
she  had  experienced  from  her  brother  faded  without  leaving  a 
trace,  and  she  thought  only  of  some  pleasant,  long-past  incidents, 
when  she  had  been  a  pretty,  engaging  child  ;  whilst  the  life  of 
romance  and  excitement,  combined  with  a  certain  spiritual 
Quixotism,  which  Inglesant  had  so  long  followed,  had  rendered 
any  other  uncongenial  to  him,  and  it  required  little  persuasion 
to  induce  him  to  re-enter  upon  it. 

But  there  were  other  causes  at  work  which  led  to  the  same 
result.  For  many  weeks  a  sultry  wind  had,  without  variation, 
passed  over  th^  south  of  Italy,  laden  with  putrid  exhalationa 


372  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [chap,  xxxill. 

trom  the  earth,  and  by  its  sullen  steadiness  causing  stagnation 
in  the  air.  It  would  be  difficult  to  describe  the  terrible  effect 
upon  the  mind  and  system  of  the  long  continuance  of  such  a 
state  of  the  atmosphere.  A  restless  fear  and  depression  of 
spirits  prepared  the  body  for  the  seeds  of  disease,  and  the  con- 
tagion, which  was  not  perhaps  generated  in  the  atmosphere, 
was  carried  by  it  with  feaiful  rapidity.  The  plague  struck 
down  its  victims  at  once  in  city  and  in  country,  and  spared  uo 
lank  nor  condition  of  life.  Then  all  bond  of  fellowship  and  of 
society  was  loosened,  strange  crimes  and  suspicions, — strange 
even  to  that  land  of  crime  and  treachery, — influenced  the  lives 
and  thoughts  of  all  men.  Innocent  persons  were  hunted  to 
death,  as  poisoners  and  spreaders  of  infection;  the  terrors  of 
the  grave  broke  through  the  forms  of  artificial  life,  and  the 
depravity  of  the  heart  was  exposed  in  ghastly  nakedness,  as  the 
bodies  of  the  dead  lay  unburied  by  the  waysides. 

The  Castello  di  San  Giorgio,  standing  .on  the  summit  of  a 
breezy  hill,  in  u  thinly-peopled  district,  was  as  safe  a  refuge  as 
could  perhaps  be  found,  and,  if  uneasiness  of  mind  could  have 
been  banished,  might  have  been  a  happy  one.  Three  hundred 
years  before,  in  tli^e  child-like  unconsciousness  of  spiritual  con- 
flict which  the  unquestioned  rule  of  Rome  for  so  long  produced, 
it  had  been  possible,  in  the  days  of  Boccaccio,  for  cultivated  and 
refined  society  to  shut  itself  up  in  some  earthly  paradise,  and, 
surrounded  by  horrors  and  by  death,  to  spend  its  days  in  light 
wit  and  anecdote,  undisturbed  in  mind,  and  kept  in  bodily 
health  by  cheerful  enjoyment ;  but  the  time  for  such  possi- 
bilities as  these  had  long  gone  by.  A  mental  trouble  and 
uneasiness,  which  pervaded  the  whole  of  human  life  at  the 
most  quiet  times,  gave  place,  at  such  periods  of  dread  and  fear, 
to  an  intolerable  restlessness,  which  altogether  precluded  the 
placid  enjoyment  of  the  present,  however  guarded  and  apparently 
secure. 

The  apprehension  which  most  weighed  upon  Lauretta's 
mind,  was  that  her  brother,  flying  from  some  city  where  the 
pestilence  raged,  might  be  refused  succour  and  assistance,  and 
might  even  be  murdered,  in  the  village  to  which  he  might  flee. 
►Such  incidents  were  of  daily  occurrence,  nor  can  it  be  wondered 
at  that  human  precaution  and  terror  became  cruel  and  merciless, 
when  it  is  an  authenticated  fact  that  the  very  birds  themselves 
forsook  the  country  plates,  and  disai)peared  from  their  native 


CHAP.  XXXIII.]  A  ROMANCE.  373 

groves,  at  the  approach  of  the  plague.  Nor  were  inanimate 
things,  even,  indifferent  to  the  scourge ;  patches  and  blotches  of 
infection  broke  out  upon  the  walls  and  houses,  and  when  scraped 
off  would  reappear  until  the  house  itself  was  burnt  down. 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  this  gliastly  existence,  this  life  iu 
death,  that  a  wandering  mendicant,  driven  from  Rome  by  the 
pestilence  and  craving  alms  at  the  Castello,  asserted  that  he 
knew  the  Qavaliere  di  Guardino,  and  that  he  was  ill  in  Rome, 
doubtless  by  this  time  dead.  The  man  probably  lied,  or  if  it 
were  true  that  he  had  known  the  Cavaliere,  as  he  had  passed 
him  on  the  steps  of  the  Trinita,  the  latter  part  of  his  story  was 
certainly  imaginary.  It  caused  Lauretta,  however,  so  much 
distress,  that  her  husband,  to  comfort  her,  proposed  to  ride  to 
Rome,  and  endeavour  to  discover  the  truth.  The  plague  was 
not  so  virulent  in  Rome  as  it  was  in  the  south  of  Italy,  and 
especially  in  Naples,  and  to  a  man  using  proper  precautions  the 
danger  might  not  be  very  great.  Lauretta  was  distracted. 
The  restless  anxiety,  which  gave  her  no  peace  until  her  brother's 
fate  was  known,  urged  her  to  let  her  husband  go.  How,  then, 
should  she  be  more  at  ease  when,  in  addition  to  one  vision  of 
dread  and  apprehension,  she  would  be  haunted  by  another? 
The  new  anxiety  seemed  a  relief  from  the  old ;  anyhow  the  old 
was  intolerable, — any  change  offered  hope. 

Upon  his  arrival  at  Rome  Inglesant  went  hither  and  thither, 
from  place  to  place,  as  one  false  report  and  another  led  him. 
Every  beggar  in  the  city  seemed  to  have  kno\\Ti  the  Cavaliere. 
The  contagion  was  sufficiently  virulent  to  stop  all  amusements, 
and  to  drive  every  one  from  the  city  who  was  not  compelled 
to  remain.  The  streets  were  almost  deserted,  and  those  who 
passed  along  them  walked  apart,  avoiding  each  other,  and 
seldom  spoke.  The  most  frequented  places  were  the  Churches, 
and  even  there  the  services  were  short  and  hrn'ried,  and  divested 
of  everything  that  could  attract  the  eye.  In  the  unusual  silence 
the  incessant  tolling  of  the  bells  was  more  marked  than  ever. 
White  processions  carrying  the  Host  glided  over  the  hushed 
pavements. 

Once  Inglesant  thought  he  had  discovered  the  man  of  whom 
he  was  in  search.  The  Cavaliere,  the  story  now  ran,  had 
arrived  in  Rome  a  few  days  ago  from  Naples,  where  the  plague 
Iind  the  mastery,  so  that  the  living  roula  not  bury  the  dead. 
He  had  come,  flying   towards  the  healthy  nortji  b^foye  th^ 


374  JOHN  INGLESANT  j  [chap.  XXXIII. 

pestilence,  which  had  overtaken  him  as  he  entered  the  Giovanni 
gate,  and  had  taken  refuge  in  a  p3st-honse,  which  had  been 
established  in  the  courtyard  of  a  little  church,  "  S.  Salvatoris 
in  Lateraiio  ad  scalas  sanctas."  Thither  Inglesant  repaired,  in 
th»5  full  glare  of  an  afternoon  in  the  late  summer.  In  a  sort  of 
cloister,  round  a  little  courtyard,  the  beds  were  laid  out  side 
by  side,  on  which  lay  the  dying  and  the  dead.  Between  the 
worn  stones  of  the  courtyard,  sprinkled  with  water,  bright 
flowers  were  springing  up.  The  monks  were  flitting  about ; 
two  or  three  of  these  also  were  dead  already.  Inglesant  inquired 
for  the  stranger  who  had  arrived  from  Naples.  He  was  dead, 
the  monks  told  him,  but  not  yet  taken  away  for  burial ;  he  lay 
there  still  upon  his  couch.  They  took  Inglesant  to  a  corner  of 
the  courtyard,  where,  looking  down  upon  the  dead  body,  he 
saw  at  once  it  was  not  that  of  the  Cavaliere.  It  was  the 
body  of  a  man  in  the  very  prime  of  life,  of  a  singularly  noble 
and  lofty  look.  He  lay  with  his  hands  clasped  over  a  little  bit 
of  crossed  wood  the  monks  had  made,  his  eyes  closed,  something 
like  a  smile  upon  his  lips. 

"  The  Cavaliere  will  not  look  like  that,"  thought  Inglesant 
to  himself. 

Who  was  he  ?  In  some  part  of  Italy,  doubtless,  there  were 
at  this  moment  those  who  waited  for  him,  and  wondered,  just 
as  he  and  Lauretta  were  doing.  Perhaps  in  some  distant 
lazaretto  some  one  might  be  standing  over  the  body  of  the 
Cavaliere,  at  just  such  a  loss  for  a  name  and  clue.  It  did 
not  seem  strange  to  Inglesant ;  he  had  wandered  through  these 
cross  ways  and  tangled  paths  of  life  from  a  child. 

He  went  out  into  the  hot  sunshine  and  down  the  long 
straight  street,  by  the  great  church  of  the  Santa  Maria,  into 
the  Via  Felix,  scarcely  knowing  where  he  went.  Across  the 
whole  breadth  of  Rome  the  few  persons  he  met  regarded  him 
with  suspicion,  and  crossed  over  to  the  other  side.  He  himself 
carried  a  pomander  of  silver  in  the  shape  of  an  apple,  stuffed 
with  spices,  which  sent  out  a  curious  faint  perfume  through 
small  holes.  He  wandered  down  the  steps  of  the  Trinita,  where 
even  the  beggars  were  few  and  quiet,  and  seeking  unconsciously 
the  cooler  air  of  the  river,  passed  the  desolate  Corso,  and  came 
down  to  the  Ripetta,  to  the  steps. 

The  sun  was  sinking  now,  and  the  western  sky  was  all 
ablaze  with  a  strange  light.     All  through  the  streets  the  image 


CHAP.  xxxiiL]  A  ROMANCE.  375 

of  the  dead  man  had  haunted  Inglesant,  and  the  silent  city 
seemed  full  of  such  pale  and  mystic  forms.  The  great  dome  of 
St.  Peter's  stood  out  dark  and  clear  against  the  yellow  light, 
which  shone  through  the  casements  below  the  dome  till  the 
whole  seemed  faint  and  ethereal  as  the  air  itself.  In  the  fore- 
ground, across  the  river,  were  low  meadows,  and  the  bare 
branches  of  trees  the  leaves  of  which  had  already  withered  and 
fallen.  In  the  distance  tlie  pollard  firs  upon  the  ramparts 
stood  out  distinctly  in  fantastic  forms ;  to  the  left  the  spires 
and  domes  of  the  city  shone  in  the  light ;  in  front  flowed  the 
dark  river,  still  and  slow.  The  large  steps  by  the  water's  edge, 
usually  so  crowded  and  heaped  with  market  produce,  were  bare 
and  deserted;  a  wild  superstitious  teiTor  took  possession  of 
Inglesant's  mind. 

In  this  solitude  and  loneliness,  amid  the  busiest  haunts  of 
life,  with  the  image  of  death  on  every  hand,  he  felt  as  though 
the  unseen  world  might  at  any  moment  manifest  itself;  the 
lurid  sky  seemed  ready  to  part  asunder,  and  amid  the  silent 
courts  and  pavements  the  dead  would  scarcely  seem  strangers 
were  they  to  appear.  He  stood  waiting,  as  though  expecting  a 
message  from  beyond  the  grave. 

And  indeed  it  seemed  to  come.  As  he  stood  upon  the  steps 
a  gray  form  came  along  the  pathway  on  the  farther  side  beneath 
the  leafless  trees  and  down  the  sloping  bank.  It  entered  the 
small  boat  that  lay  moored  beneath  the  alders,  and  guided  itself 
across  the  stream.  It  stood  erect  and  motionless,  propelling 
the  skiff  doubtless  by  an  oar  at  the  stern,  but  from  the  place 
where  Inglesant  stood  the  boat  seemed  to  move  of  its  own 
accord,  like  the  magic  bark  in  some  romance  of  chivalry.  In 
its  left  hand  the  figure  held  something  which  shone  in  the 
light ;  the  yellow  glamour  of  the  sunset,  dazzling  to  Inglesant's 
eyes,  fluttered  upon  its  vestment  of  whitish  gray,  and  clothed 
in  transparent  radiance  this  shadowy  reveuant  from  the  tomb. 
It  made  no  stay  at  the  landing-place,  but,  as  though  on  an 
errand  of  life  and  death,  it  came  straight  up  the  wide  curved 
steps,  holding  forward  in  its  left  hand  a  crucifix  of  brass.  It 
passed  within  a  step  of  Inglesant,  who  was  standing,  wonder- 
struck,  at  the  summit  of  the  steps,  his  silver  pomander  in  his 
hand.  As  it  passed  him  he  could  see  the  face,  pale  and  stead- 
fast, with  a  bright  lustre  in  the  eyes,  and  looking  full  upou  him 
without  pausing,  the  friar,  if  it  were  a  friar,  said, — 


376  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [cHAP.  XXXIII. 

"  He  is  in  Naples.  In  timt  city,  or  near  it,  you  will  find 
the  man  you  seek.  Ay  !  and  far  more  than  you  seek.  Let; 
there  be  no  delay  on  your  part." 

Then,  still  holding  the  crucifix  forward  at  arm's  length,  as 
though  to  cleave  the  poisoned  air  before  him  as  he  went,  the 
figure  passed  up  the  street,  turning  neither  to  the  right  nor  to 
the  left,  and,  taking  no  notice  of  any  of  the  few  loiterers  in  his 
way,  passed  quickly  out  of  sight. 

Inglesant  turned  to  two  fishermen  who  were  coming  slowly 
down  towards  the  ferry. 

"Did  you  see  that  Servite  friar  ?"  he  said. 

The  men  gazed  at  him  uneasily.  "  He  is  light-headed," 
one  of  them  muttered ;  "  he  has  the  plague  upon  him,  and  does 
not  know  what  he  says." 

Though  he  said  this,  they  might  have  seen  the  friar  all  the 
same,  for  Inglesant's  manner  was  excited,  and  those  were 
perilous  times  in  which  to  speak  to  strangers  in  the  streets. 
The  two  men  got  into  the  boat,  and  passed  over  hastily  to  the 
other  side. 

Naples  !  It  was  walking  straight  into  the  jaws  of  death. 
The  dead  were  lying  in  the  streets  in  heaps,  sprinkled  hastily 
with  lime;  and  lavish  gifts  of  freedom  and  of  gold  could 
scarcely  keep  the  galley  slaves  from  breaking  out  of  the  city, 
though  they  knew  that  poverty  and  probably  destruction 
awaited  them  elsewhere.  But  this  strange  message  from 
another  world,  which  bore  such  an  impress  of  a  higher  know- 
ledge, how  could  he  disobey  it  1  "  Far  more  than  he  sought." 
These  words  haunted  him.  He  made  inquiries  at  the  mon- 
astery of  the  Jesuits  in  the  Corso,  but  could  hear  nothing  of 
such  a  man.  Most  of  those  to  whom  he  spoke  were  of  opinion 
that  he  had  seen  a  vision.  He  himself  sometimes  thought  it 
an  illusion  of  the  brain,  conjured  up  by  the  story  of  the  man 
who  came  from  NajDles,  by  the  afternoon  heat,  and  by  the 
sight  of  the  dead ;  but  in  all  this  the  divine  wisdom  might  be 
working ;  by  these  strange  means  the  divine  hand  might  guide. 
"Let  there  be  no  delay  on  your  part."  These  words  sounded 
like  a  far-off  echo  of  Father  St.  Clare's  voice ;  once  again  the 
old  iiabit  of  obedience  stirred  within  him.  Wife  and  child  and 
home  stood  in  the  path,  but  the  training  which  first  love  had 
been  powerless  to  oppose  was  not  likely  to  fail  now.  Once 
again  his  station  seemed  to  be  given  him.     Before — upon  the 


•SAP.  XXXIV. J  A  ROMANCE.  377 

ecaffold,  at  the  traitor's  dock,  in  prison — he  had  been  found  at 
the  appointed  post;  would  it  be  worth  while  now,  when  life 
was  so  much  farther  run  out,  to  falter  and  turn  back  ?  The 
higher  walks  of  the  holy  life  had  indeed  proved  too  difficult 
and  steep,  but  to  this  running-footman's  sort  of  business  he  had 
before  proved  himself  equal ; — should  he  now  be  found  untrust- 
worthy even  in  this  1 

He  resolved  to  go.  If  he  returned  at  all,  he  would  be  back 
at  the  Castello  before  any  increased  apprehension  would  be  felt ; 
if  it  were  the  will  of  God  that  he  should  never  return,  the 
Jesuit  fathers  would  undertake  the  care  of  Lauretta  and  his 
child. 

He  confessed  and  received  tbe  Sacrament  at  the  Church  of 
the  Gesu,  in  the  Chapel  of  St.  Ignatio,  in  the  clear  morning 
light,  kneeling  upon  the  cold  brilliant  marble  floor.  It  was 
the  ]ast  day  of  July,  very  early,  and  the  Church  was  swept  and 
garnished  for  the  great  festival  of  the  Saint.  Inglesant  did 
not  wait  for  the  saddened  festival,  but  left"  Kome  immediately 
that  the  early  mass  was  done. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

When  Inglesant  had  passed  the  Pontine  Marshes,  and  had 
come  into  the  flowery  and  wooded  country  about  Mola,  where 
the  traveller  begins  to  rejoice  and  to  delight  his  eyes,  he  found 
this  beautiful  land  little  less  oppres.sive  than  the  dreary  marshes 
he  had  left.  The  vineyards  covered  the  slopes,  and  hung  their 
festoons  on  every  side.  The  citron  and  jasmin  and  orange 
bloomed  around  him ;  and  in  the  cooler  and  more  shady  walks 
flowers  yet  covered  the  ground,  in  spite  of  the  heat.  The  sober 
tints  of  the  oaks  and  beeches  contrasted  with  the  brilliant 
orange  groves  and  vineyards,  and,  with  the  palms  and  aloes, 
offered  that  variety  which  usually  charms  the  traveller;  and 
the  distant  sea,  calm  and  blue,  with  the  long  headlands  covered 
with  battlements  and  gay  villas,  with  plantations  and  terraces, 
carried  the  eye  onward  into  the  dim  unknown  distance,  with 
what  is  usually  a  sense  of  delightful  desire. 

But  as  Inglesant  rode  along,  an  overpowering  sense  of  op- 
pression and  heaviness  hung  over  this  beautiful  laud.    The  heat 


378  JOHN  INGLES  ant;  [chap.  xxxiv. 

was  intense ;  no  rain  nor  dew  had  fallen  for  many  weeks.  The 
ground  in  most  places  was  scored  and.hard,  and  the  leaves  were 
withered.  The  brooks  were  nearly  dry,  and  the  plantations 
near  the  roads  were  white  with  dust.  An  overpowering  per- 
fume, sickly  and  penetrating,  filled  the  air,  and  seemed  to  choke 
the  breath  ;  a  deadly  stillness  pervaded  the  land  ;  and  scarcely 
a  human  form,  either  of  wayfarer  or  peasant,  was  to  be  seen. 

At  the  small  towns  near  to  Naples  every  form  of  life  was 
silent  and  inert.  Inglesant  was  received  without  difficulty,  as 
he  was  going  towards  Naples;  but  he  was  regarded  with 
wonder,  and  remonstrated  with  as  courting  certain  death.  He 
halted  at  Aversa,  and  waited  till  the  mid-day  heat  was  past. 
Here,  at  last,  there  seemed  some  little  activity  and  life.  A 
sort  of  market  even  appeared  to  be  held,  and  Inglesant  asked 
the  host  what  it  meant. 

"  When  the  plague  first  began  in  Naples,  signore,"  he  said, 
"  a  market  was  established  here  to  supply  the  city  with  bread, 
fresh  meat,  aiJ  other  provisions.  Officers  appointed  by  the 
city  came  out  hither,  and  conveyed  it  back.  But,  as  the  plague 
became  more  deadly,  most  of  those  thus  sent  out  never  returned 
to  the  city,  in  spite  of  the  penalties  to  which  such  conduct 
exposed  them.  Since  the  plague  spread  into  the  country  places, 
the  peasants  have  mostly  ceased  to  bring  their  produce ;  but 
what  little  is  brought  you  see  here,  and  one  of  the  magistrates 
is  generally  obliged  to  come  out  from  Naples  to  receive  it." 

"  Is  the  city  suffering  from  famine  then  V  asked  Inglesant. 

"  The  city  is  like  hell  itself,  Signore  il  Cavaliere,"  replied 
the  host.  "  They  tell  me  that  he  who  looks  upon  it  will  never 
be  able  to  sleep  peacefully  again.  They  lie  heaped  together  in 
the  streets,  the  dying  and  the  dead.  The  hospitals  are  choked 
with  dead  bodies,  so  that  none  dare  go  in.  They  are  blowing 
up  masses  of  houses,  so  as  to  bury  the  bodies  under  the  ruins 
with  lime  and  water  and  earth.  Twenty  thousand  persons  have 
died  in  a  single  day.  Those  who  have  been  induced  to  touch 
the  dead  to  cart  them  away  never  live  more  than  two  days." 

"The  religious,  and  the  physicians,  and  the  magistrates, 
then,  remain  at  their  posts  ?"  said  Inglesant. 

The  host  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  There  is  not  more  to  be  said  of  one  class  than  another," 
he  said ;  "  there  are  cowards  in  all.  Many  of  the  physicians 
fled;  but,   on  the  other   hand,  two  strange   physicians . came 


CHAP.  XXXIV.  1  A  ROMANCR  379 

forward  of  their  own  accord,  and  offered  to  be  shut  up  in  the 
Santa  Casa  Hospital.  They  never  came  out  alive.  Many  of 
the  religious  fled  ;  but  the  Capuchins  and  the  Jesuits,  tliey  say, 
are  all  dead.  Most  of  the  Franciscan  Fi  iars  are  dead,  and  all 
the  great  Carmelites.  They  run  to  all  houses  that  are  most 
infected,  and  to  those  streets  that  are  the  most  thronged  with 
putrefied  bodies,  and  into  those  hospitals  where  the  plague  is 
hottest;  and  confess  the  sick  and  attend  them  to  their  last 
gasp ;  and  receive  their  poisonous  breath  as  though  it  were  the 
scent  of  a  rose." 

"  But  is  no  attempt  made  to  bury  the  dead  V 

"  They  are  letting  out  the  galley  slaves  by  a  hundred  at  a 
time,"  replied  tlie  host ;  "  they  offer  freedom  and  a  pension  for 
life  to  the  survivors,  but  none  do  survive.  Fathers  and  mothers 
desert  their  own  children;  children  their  parents;  nay,  they 
throw  them  out  into  the  streets  to  die.  What  would  you 
have?" 

The  host  paused,  and  looked  at  Inglesant  curiously,  as  he 
sat  drinking  some  wine. 

"Have  you  a  lady-love  in  Naples,  signore  ?"  he  said  at 
la^t ;  "  or  are  you  heir  to  a  rich  man,  and  wish  to  save  his 
gold  r' 

"  I  am  leaving  wife  and  child,"  replied  Inglesant,  bitterly, 
"  to  seek  a  man  whom  I  hate,  whom  I  shall  never  find  under 
the  heaps  of  dead.  You  had  better  say  at  once  that  I  am  mad. 
That  is  nearest  to  the  truth." 

The  host  looked  at  him  compassionately,  and  left  the  room. 

In  the  cool,  of  the  evening  Inglesant  rode  through  the 
deserted  vineyards,  and  approached  the  barriers.  On  the  way 
he  met  some  few  foot-passengers,  pale  and  emaciated,  trudging 
doggedly  onwards.  They  were  leaving  death  behind  them,  but 
they  saw  nothing  but  misery  and  death  elsewhere.  They  took 
no  notice  of  Inglesant  as  they  passed.  Many  of  them,  exhausted 
and  smitten  with  the  disease,  sank  down  and  died  by  the  way- 
side. When  he  arrived  at  the  barriers,  he  found  them  deserted, 
and  no  guard  whatever  kept.  He  left  his  horse  at  a  little 
osteria  without  the  gate,  which  also  seemed  deserted.  There 
was  hay  in  the  stable,  and  the  animal  might  shift  for  himseli 
if  so  inclined.  Inglesant  left  him  loose.  As  he  entered  the 
city,  and  passed  through  the  Largo  into  the  Strada  Toledo,  the 
sight  that  met  his  eyes  was  one  never  to  be  forgotten. 


380  JOHN  INGLESANT,  [chap,  xxxiv, 

The  streets  were  full  of  people, — more  so,  indeed,  than  is 
usual  even  in  Naples ;  for  business  was  at  a  stand,  the  houses 
were  full  of  infection,  and  a  terrible  restlessness  drove  every  one 
here  and  there.  The  stately  rows  of  houses  and  palaces,  and 
the  lofty  churches,  looked  down  on  a  changing,  fleeting,  restless 
crowd, — unoccupied,  speaking  little,  walking  hither  and  thither 
with  no  aim,  every  few  minutes  turning  back  and  retracing  their 
steps.  Every  quarter  of  an  hour  or  thereabouts  a  confused 
procession  of  priests  and  laymen,  singing  doleful  and  despairing 
misereres,  and  bearing  the  sacred  Host  with  canopy  and  crosses, 
came  from  one  of  the  side  streets,  or  out  of  one  of  the  Churches, 
and  proceeded  along  the  Strada.  As  these  processions  passed, 
every  one  prostrated  themselves,  with  an  excess  and  desperate 
earnestness  of  devotion,  and  many  followed  the  Host ;  but  in  a 
moment  or  two  those  who  knelt  or  those  who  followed  rose  or 
turned  away  with  gestures  of  despair  or  distraction,  as  though 
incapable  of  sustained  action,  or  of  confidence  in  any  remedy. 
And  at  this  there  could  be  no  wonder,  since  this  crowd  of  people 
were  picking  their  way  amid  a  mass  of  dead  corruption  on  every 
side  of  them  under  their  feet.  On  the  stone  pavement  of  the 
stately  Strada,  on  the  palace  stairs,  on  the  steps  before  the 
Churches,  lay  corpses  in  every  variety  of  contortion  at  which 
death  can  arrive.  Sick  people  upon  beds  and  heaps  of  linen — - 
some  delicate  and  costly,  some  filthy  and  decayed — lay  mingled 
with  the  dead ;  they  had  been  turned  out  of  the  houses,  or  had 
deserted  them  to  avoid  being  left  to  die  alone ;  and  every  now 
and  then  some  one  of  those  who  walked  apparently  in  health 
would  lie  down,  stricken  by  the  heat  or  by  the  plague,  and  join 
this  prostrate  throng,  for  whom  there  was  no  longer  in  this 
world  any  hope  of  revival. 

This  sight,  which  would  have  been  terrible  anywhere,  was 
imiitterably  distressing  and  ghastly  in  Naples,  the  city  of 
thoughtless  pleasure  and  of  reckless  mirth, — a  city  lying  under 
a  blue  and  cloudless  sky,  by  an  azure  sea,  glowing  in  the  \msur- 
passable  brilliancy  and  splendour  of  the  sun.  As  this  dazzling 
blue  and  gold,  before  which  all  colours  pale,  made  the  scene  the 
most  ghastly  that  could  have  been  chosen  as  the  theatre  for 
such  an  appalling  spectacle,  so,  among  a  people  child-like  and 
grotesque,  seducing  the  stranger  into  sympathy  with  its  delight 
— a  people  crowned  with  flowers,  and  clothed  in  colours  of  every 
shade,  full  of  high  and  gay  spirits,  and  possessed  of  a  conscience 


CHAP.  XXXIV.]  A  ROMANCE.  381 

that  gives  no  pain — this  masque  and  dance  of  death  assumed 
an  aspect  of  intolerable  horror.  Naples  was  given  over  to 
pantomime  and  festival,  leading  dances  and  processions  with 
Thyrsis  and  garlands,  and  trailing  branches  of  friut.  The  old- 
Tabulae  and  farce  lingered  yet  beneath  the  delicious  sky  and  in 
the  lovely  spots  of  earth  that  lured  the  Pagan  to  dream  that 
earth  was  heaven.  The  poles  and  scaffolds  and  dead  flowers  of 
the  last  festival  still  lingered  in  the  streets. 

In  this  city,  turned  at  once  into  a  charnel-house — nay,  into 
a  hell  and  place  of  torment, — the  mighty,  unseen  hand  suddenly 
struck  down  its  prey,  and  without  warning  seized  upon  the 
wretched  conscience,  all  unprepared  for  such  a  blow.  The  cast 
of  a  pantomime  is  a  strange  sight  beneath  the  glare  and  light 
of  mid-day;  but  here  were  quacks  and  nobles,  jugglers  and 
soldiers,  comic  actors  and  "filosofi,"  pleasure-seekers  and  monks, 
gentry  and  beggars,  all  surprised  as  it  were,  suddenly,  by  the 
light  and  glare  of  the  death  angel's  torch,  and  crowded  upon  one 
level  stage  of  misery  and  despair. 

Sick  and  dizzy  with  horror,  and  choked  with  the  deadly 
smell  and  malaria,  Inglesant  turned  into  several  osteria,  but 
could  find  no  host  in  any.  In  several  he  saw  sights  which 
chilled  his  blood.  At  last  he  gave  up  the  search,  and,  wear}^  as 
he  was,  sought  the  hospitals.  The  approaches  to  some  of  these 
were  so  blocked  up  by  the  dead  and  the  dying  who  had  vainly 
sought  admission,  that  entrance  was  impossible.  In  others  the 
galley  slaves  were  at  work.  In  every  open  spot  of  ground 
where  the  earth  coidd  be  disturbed  without  cutting  off  the 
water  pipes  which  ran  through  the  city,  trenches  had  been  dug, 
and  the  bodies  which  were  collected  from  the  streets  and  hospi- 
tals were  thrown  hastily  into  them,  and  covered  with  lime  and 
earth.  Inglesant  strayed  into  the  "Monte  della  Misericordia " 
which  had  recently  been  cleared  .of  the  dead.  A  few  sick  per- 
sons lay  in  the  beds ;  but  the  house  seemed  wonderfidly  clean 
and  sweet,  and  the  rooms  cool  and  fresh.  The  floors  were  soaked 
with  vinegar,  and  the  place  was  full  of  the  scent  of  juniper,  bay 
berries,  and  rosemary,  which  were  burning  in  every  room.  It 
seemed  to  Inglesant  like  a  little  heaven,  and  he  sank  exhausted 
upon  one  of  the  ])eds.  They  brought  him  some  wine,  and  pre- 
sently the  Signore  di  Mauro,  one  of  the  physicians  appointed  by 
the  city,  who  still  remained  bravely  at  his  post,  cyme  and  spoke 
to  him. 


382  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [cHAP.  XXXIV. 

"  I  perceive  that  you  are  a  stranger  in  Naples  and  untouched 
by  the  disease,"  he  said.  "  I  am  at  a  loss  to  account  for  your 
presence  here.  This  house  is  indeed  cleared  for  a  moment,  but 
it  is  the  last  time  that  we  can  expect  help.  The  supply  of 
galley  slaves  is  failing,  and  when  it  stops  entirely,  which  it  must 
in  a  few  days,  I  see  nothing  in  the  futm-e  but  the  general  extir- 
pation of  all  the  inhabitants  of  this  fated  city,  and  that  its  vast 
circumference,  filled  with  putrefaction  and  venom,  wilZ  afterwards 
"be  uninhabitable  to  the  rest  of  mankind." 

This  doleful  foreboding  made  little  impression  uljon  inglesant, 
who  was,  indeed,  too  much  exhausted  both  in  mind  and  body 
to  pay  much  attention  to  anything. 

"I  am  come  to  Naples,"  he  said  faintly,  "in  search  of 
another ;  will  you  let  me  stay  in  this  house  to-night  1  I  can 
find  no  one  in  the  inns." 

"  I  will  do  better  for  you  than  that,"  said  the  good  physician; 
"  you  shall  come  to  my  own  house,  which  is  free  from  infection. 
I  have  but  one  inmate,  an  old  servant,  who,  I  think,  is  too  dry 
and  withered  a  morsel  even  for  the  plague.     I  am  going  at  once." 

Something  in  Inglesant's  manner  probably  attracted  him, 
otherwise  it  is  difficult  to  account  for  his  kindness  to  a  stranger 
under  such  circumstances. 

They  went  out  together.  Inglesant  by  chance  seemed  to 
be  about  to  turn  into  another  and  smaller  street — the  physician 
pulled  him  back  hiu-riedly  with  a  shudder. 

"Whatever  you  do,"  he  said  in  a  whisper,  "keep  to  the 
principal  thoroughfares.  I  dare  not  recollect — the  most  heated 
imagination  would  shrink  from  conceiving — the  unutterable 
horrors  of  the  bye-streets." 

Picking  their  way  among  the  dead  bodies,  which  the  slaves, 
with  handkerchiefs  steeped  in  vinegar  over  their  faces,  were 
piling  into  carts,  the  two  proceeded  down  the  Strada. 

Inglesant  asked  the  physician  how  the  plague  first  began  in 
Naples. 

"  It  is  the  terrible  enemy  of  mankind,"  replied  the  other — 
he  was  rather  a  pompous  man,  with  all  his  kindness  and 
devotion,  and  used  long  words — "that  walks  stained  with 
slaughter  by  night.  We  know  not  whence  it  comes.  Befon' 
it  are  beautiful  gardens,  crowded  habitations,  and  populous 
cities ;  behind  it  unfruitful  emptiness  and  howling  desolation. 
Before  it  the  guards  and  armies  of  mighty  princes  are  as  dead 


CHAP.  XXXIV.]  A  ROMANCK  383 

men,  and  physicians  are  no  protection  either  to  the  sick  or 
to  themselves.  Some  imagine  that  it  comes  from  the  cities  of 
the  East ;  some  that  it  arises  from  poverty  and  famine,  and 
from  the  tainted  and  perishing  flesh,  and  miripe  fruits  and 
hurtful  herbs,  which,  in  times  of  scarcity  and  dearth,  the 
starving  people  greedily  devom-  to  satisfy  their  craving  hunger. 
Others  contend  that  it  is  inflicted  immediately  by  the  hand  of 
God.  These  are  mostly  the  priests.  When  we  have  puzzled 
our  reason,  and  are  at  our  wit's  end  through  ignorance,  we  come 
to  that.  I  have  read  something  in  a  play,  written  by  one  of 
yoiu-  countrymen — for  I  perceive  you  are  an  Englishman — 
where  all  mistakes  are  laid  upon  the  King." 

They  were  arrived  by  this  time  at  the  physician's  house, 
and  were  received  by  an  old  woman  whose  appearance  fully 
justified  her  master's  description.  She  provided  for  Inglesant's 
wants,  and  prepared  a  bed  for  him,  and  he  sank  into  an  uneasy 
and  restless  sleep.  The  night  was  stiflingly  hot,  suppressed 
cries  and  groans  broke  the  stillness,  and  the  distant  chanting 
of  monks  was  heard  at  intervals.  Soon  after  midnight  the 
Churches  were  again  crowded ;  mass  was  said,  and  thousands 
received  the  Sacrament  with  despairing  faith.  The  physician 
came  into  Inglesant's  room  early  in  the  morning. 

"  I  am  going  out,"  he  said ;  "  keep  as  much  as  possible  out 
of  the  Churches ;  they  spread  the  contagion.  The  magistrates 
wished  to  close  them,  but  the  superstitious  people  would  not 
hear  of  it.  I  will  make  inquiries,  and  if  any  of  the  religious,  or 
any  one  else,  has  heard  your  friend's  name,  I  will  send  you 
word.     I  may  not  return." 

Shortly  after  he  was  gone,  the  crowd  thronging  in  one 
direction  before  Inglesant's  window  caused  him  to  rise  and 
follow.  He  came  to  one  of  the  slopes  of  the  hill  of  Santo 
Martino,  above  the  city.  Here  a  crowd,  composed  of  every 
class,  from  a  noble  down  to  the  lowest  lazzaroni,  were  engaged, 
in  the  clear  morning  light,  in  building  a  small  house.  Some 
were  making  bricks,  some  drawing  along  stones,  some  carrying 
timber.  A  nun  had  dreamed  that  were  a  hermitage  erected  for 
her  order  the  plague  would  cease,  and  the  people  set  to  work, 
with  desperate  earnestness,  to  finish  the  building.  By  the  way- 
side up  the  ascent  were  set  empty  barrels,  into  which  the 
wealthier  citizens  dropped  gold  and  jewels  to  assist  the  work. 
As  Ingiesant  was  standing  by,  watching  the  work,   he  was 


384  JOHN  INCLESANT  ;  [cHAP.  XXXIT. 

accosted  by  a  dignified,  highly  bred  old  gentleman,  in  a  velvet 
coat  and  Venice  lace,  who  seemed  less  absorbed  in  the  general 
panic  than  the  rest. 

"  This  is  a  strange  sight,"  he  said ;  "  what  the  tyi-anny  of 
the  Spaniards  was  not  able  to  do,  the  plague  has  done.  When 
the  Spaniard  was  storming  the  gates  the  gentlemen  oi  the 
Borgo  Santa  Maria  and  the  lazzaroni  fought  each  other  in  the 
streets,  and  the  gentlemen  avowed  that  they  preferred  any 
degree  of  foreign  tyranny  to  acknowledging  or  associating  with 
the  common  people.  With  this  deadly  enemy  not  only  at  the 
gates  but  in  the  very  midst  of  us,  gentlemen  and  lazzaroni  toil 
together  without  a  thought  of  suspicion  or  contempt.  The 
plague  has  made  us  all  equal.  I  perceive  that  you  are  a 
stranger.  May  I  ask  what  has  brought  you  into  this  ill-fated 
city  at  such  a  time  1" 

"  I  am  in  search  of  my  relation,  il  Cavaliere  di  Guardino," 
replied  Inglesant ;  "do  you  know  such  a  name  1" 

"It  seems  familiar   to   me,"  replied   the   old   gentleman. 
"Have  you  reason  to  suppose  that  he  is  in  Naples?" 
Inglesant  said  that  he  had. 

"  The  persons  most  likely  to  give  you  information  would  be 
the  Signori,  the  officers  of  the  galleys.  They  would  doubtless 
be  acquainted  with  the  Cavaliere  before  the  plague  became  so 
violent,  and  would  know,  at  any  rate,  whether  it  was  his 
intention  to  leave  Naples  or  not.  The  galleys  lie,  as  you  know, 
moored  together  there  in  the  bay,  and  many  other  ships  lie  near 
them,  upon  which  persons  have  taken  refuge  who  believe  that 
the  plague  cannot  touch  them  on  the  water — an  expectation  in 
which,  I  believe,  many  have  been  fotally  deceived." 

Inglesant  thanked  the  gentleman,  and  inquired  how  it  was 
that  he  remained  so  calm  and  unconcerned  amidst  the  general 
consternation. 

"  I  am  too  old  for  the  plague,"  he  replied ;  "  nothing  can 
touch  me  but  death  itself.  I  am  also,"  he  continued  with  a 
peculiar  smile,  "  the  fortunate  possessor  of  a  true  piece  of  the 
holy  Cross ;  so  that  you  see  I  am  doubly  safe." 

Inglesant  went  at  once  to  the  harboiu*,  musing  on  the  way 
on  these  last  words,  and  wondering  whether  they  were  spoken 
in  good  faith  or  irony. 

The  scenes  on  the  streets  seemed  more  terrible  even  than 
on  the  preceding  day.     The  slaves  were  engaged  here  and  there 


CHAP.  XXXIV.]  A  ROMANCK  385 

in  removing  the  bodies,  but  the  task  was  far  beyond  their 
strength.  Cries  of  pain  and  teiTor  were  heard  on  all  sides,  and 
every  now  and  then  a  maddened  wretch  would  throw  himself 
from  a  window,  or  would  rush,  naked  perhaps,  from  a  house, 
and,  stumbling  and  leaping  over  the  corpses  and  the  dying,  like 
the  demoniac  among  the  tombs,  would  fling  himself  in  despera- 
tion into  the  water  of  the  harbour,  or  over  the  walls  into  the 
moats.  One  of  these  maniacs,  passing  close  to  Inglesant,  at- 
tempted to  embrace  a  passer-by,  who  coolly  ran  him  through 
the  body  with  his  sword,  the  bystanders  applauding  the  act. 

In  the  harbour  corpses  were  floating,  which  a  few  slaves  in 
boats  were  feebly  attempting  to  drag  together  with  hooks. 
They  escaped  their  efforts,  and  rose  and  sank  with  a  ghastly 
resemblance  to  life.  Upon  the  quay  Inglesant  fortunately  found 
the  physician,  Signore  Mauro,  who  was  himself  going  on  board 
the  galleys  to  endeavoiu:  to  procure  the  loan  of  more  slaves. 
He  offered  to  take  Inglesant  with  him. 

As  they  went  the  physician  told  him  he  had  not  discovered 
any  trace  of  the  Cavaliere ;  but  what  was  very  curious,  he  said, 
many  other  persons  appeared  to  be  engaged  in  the  same  search. 
It  might  be  that  all  these  people  were  in  fact  but  one,  multi- 
plied by  the  forgetfulness,  and  by  the  excited  imaginations  of 
those  from  whom  Signore  Mauro  had  obtained  his  information; 
but,  if  these  persons  were  to  be  believed,  monks,  friars,  phy- 
sicians, soldiers,  and  even  ladies,  were  engaged  in  this  singular 
search  in  a  city  where  all  ties  of  friendship  were  forgotten,  for 
a  man  whom  no  one  knew. 

As  they  shot  over  the  silent  water,  and  by  the  shadowy 
hulks  of  ships  lying  idle  and  untended,  with  the  cry  of  the  city 
of  the  dead  behind  them  and  the  floating  corpses  around,  Ingle- 
sant listened  to  the  physician  as  a  man  listens  in  a  dream. 
Long  shadows  stretched  across  the  harbour,  which  sparkled 
beneath  the  rays  of  the  newly-risen  sun  ;  a  sudden  swoon  stole 
over  Inglesant's  spirits,  through  which  the  voice  of  the  physician 
sounded  distant  and  faint.  He  gave  himself  up  for  lost,  yet  he 
felt  a  kind  of  dim  expectation  that  something  was  about  to 
happen  which  these  unknown  inquirers  foretold. 

The  galleys  lay  moored  near  together,  with  several  other 
ships  of  large  size  in  company.  Signore  Maiu:o  climbed  to  the 
quarter-deck  of  the  largest  gaUey,  on  which  the  commodore  was, 
and  Inglesant  followed  him,  still  hardly  knowing  what  he  did. 

2o 


386  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [cHAP.  XXXIV 

The  oars  were  shipped,  but  the  slaves  were  chained  to  their 
benches,  as  tliough  the  galleys  were  at  sea.  They  were  singing 
and  playing  at  cards.  Upon  the  quarter-deck,  pointing  to  the 
long  files  of  slaves,  were  two  loaded  howitzers,  behind  each  of 
which  stood  a  gunner  with  a  lighted  match.  Soldiers  heavily 
armed,  and  with  long  whips,  paraded  the  raised  gangway  or  pass- 
age which  ran  the  whole  length  of  the  ship  between  the  rows 
of  benches  upon  which  the  slaves  were  placed.  The  officers 
were  mostly  on  the  quarter-deck ;  they  looked  pale  and  excited, 
though  it  was  singular  that  few  or  no  cases  of  the  plague  had 
occiured  among  the  slaves  who  remained  on  board.  The  decks 
were  washed  with  vinegar,  and  the  galleys  and  slaves  were  much 
cleaner  than  usual. 

The  physician  stated  his  request  to  the  commander,  who 
ordered  ten  slaves  from  every  galley  to  be  sent  on  shore.  Some 
were  wanted  to  act  as  bakers,  some  as  butchers,  most  of  the 
artizans  in  the  city  having  fled  or  perished.  A  boatswain  was 
ordered  to  make  the  selection.  He  chose  one  or  two,  and  then 
called  upon  the  rest  to  volunteer.  Inglesant  was  standing  by 
him  on  the  gangway,  looking  down  the  files  of  slaves.  There 
were  men  of  every  age,  of  every  rank,  and  almost  of  every 
country.  As  the  boatswain  gave  the  word,  every  hand  was 
held  up ;  to  all  these  men  death  was  welcome  at  the  end  of 
two  or  three  days'  change  of  life,  abundance  of  food,  and  com- 
parative freedom.     The  boatswain  selected  ten  by  chance. 

Signore  Mauro  inquired  among  the  officers  concerning  the 
CavaHere,  but  could  obtain  no  positive  information.  Most  had 
heard  the  name,  some  professed  to  have  known  him  intimately ; 
all  united  in  saying  he  had  left  Naples.  Inglesant  and  the 
physician  visited  two  or  three  other  galleys,  but  with  no 
greater  success.  They  retm-ned  on  shore  as  the  heat  was  be- 
coming intense ;  the  Churches  were  crowded,  and  the  Holy 
Sacrament  was  exhibited  every  few  moments.  The  physician 
refused  to  enter  any  of  them. 

Then  Inglesant  determined  to  try  the  hospitals  again.  He 
went  to  the  "  Santa  Casa  degli  Incurabili,"  which  the  day 
before  he  had  not  been  able  to  approach  for  the  dying  and  the 
dead.  The  slaves  had  worked  hard  all  night,  and  hundreds  of 
corpses  had  been  removed  and  buried  in  a  vast  trench  without 
the  wall  of  the  hospital.  Inglesant  passed  through  many  of 
the  rcoms,  and  spoke  to  several  of  the  religious  persons  v'ho 


«HAP.  XXXIV.]  A  ROMANCR  387 

were  tending  the  sick,  but  could  learn  nothing  of  the  object  of 
his  search.  At  last  one  of  the  monks  conducted  him  into  the 
strange  room  called  the  "  Anticamera  di  Morte,"  to  which,  in 
more  orderly  times,  the  patients  whose  cases  were  hoiDeless 
were  removed. 

There,  at  the  last  extremity  of  life,  before  they  were  hurried 
into  the  great  pit  outside  the  walls,  lay  the  plague-stricken. 
Some  unconscious,  yet  with  fearful  throes  and  gasps  awaiting 
their  release ;  some  in  an  agony  of  pain  and  death,  crying  upon 
God  and  the  Saints.  KneeHng  by  the  bedsides  were  several 
monks ;  but  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room,  bending  over  a 
sick  man,  was  a  figiu'e  in  a  friar's  gown  that  made  Inglesant 
stop  suddenly,  and  his  heart  beat  quicker  as  he  caught  his 
companion's  arm. 

"Who  is  that  friar,  Father?"  he  said,  "the  one  at  the  end, 
bending  over  the  bed  V 

"  Ah  !  that,"  said  the  priest,  "  that  is  Father  Grazia  of  the 
jOapuchins  ;  a  very  holy  man,  and  devoted  to  mortification  and 
good  works.  -  He  is  blind,  though  he  moves  about  so  cleverly. 
He  says  that,  to  within  the  last  few  years,  his  life  was  passed 
in  every  species  of  sin ;  and  he  relates  that  he  was  solemnly 
given  over  to  the  vengeance  of  the  blessed  Gesu  by  his  mortal 
enemy,  the  minion  of  a  Cardinal,  and  that  the  Lord  has  afflicted 
him  with  untold  sorrows  and  sufferings  to  bring  him  to  Himself 
and  to  a  life  of  holy  mortification  and  charity,  which  he  leads 
unceasingly — night  and  day.  He  is  but  now  come  in  hither, 
knowing  that  the  sick  man  by  whose  bed  he  is,  is  dying  of  the 
plague  in  its  most  fearful  form, — a  man  whom  none  willingly 
will  approach.  Mostly  he  is  in  the  vilest  dens  of  the  city, 
reeking  with  pestilence,  where  to  go,  to  all  save  him,  is  certain 
death.  His  holiness  and  the  Lord's  will  keep  him,  so  that  the 
plague  cannot  touch  him.     Ah  !  he  is  coming  this  way." 

It  was  true.  The  friar  had  suddenly  started  from  his  recum- 
bent position,  conscious  that  the  man  before  him  was  no  more. 
At  the  same  moment,  his  mind,  released  from  the  attention 
which  had  riveted  it  before,  seemed  to  become  aware  of  a 
presence  in  the  chamber  of  death  which  was  of  the  intensest 
interest.  He  came  down  the  passage  in  the  centre  of  the  room 
with  an  eager  unfaltering  step,  as  though  able  to  see,  and 
coming  to  within  a  few  feet  of  the  two  men,  he  stopped,  and 
looked  ta  wards  them  with  an  excited  glance,  as  though  he  saw 


388  JOHN  INGLESANT,  [cHAP.  xxxiv. 

their  fates.  Inglesant  was  embarrassed,  and  hesitated  whether 
to  recognize  him  or  not.  At  last,  pitying  the  look  in  the  blind 
man's  face,  he  said, — 

"  This  holy  Father  is  not  unknown  to  me,  though  I  know 
not  that  he  would  desire  to  meet  me  again.  I  am  '  the  minion 
of  a  Cardinal '  of  whom  you  spoke." 

The  friar  stretched  out  his  hands  before  him,  with  an  eager, 
delighted  gesture. 

"I  knew  it,"  he  said;  "I  felt  your  presence  long  before 
you  spoke.  It  signifies  little  whether  I  am  glad  to  find  you  or 
no.     It  is  part  of  the  Lord's  purpose  that  we  should  meet." 

"  This  is  a  strange  and  sanctified  meeting,"  said  the  priest, 
*'in  the  room  of  death,  and  by  the  beds  of  the  dead.  Doubt- 
less you  have  much  to  say  that  can  only  be  said  to  yourselves 
alone." 

"I  cannot  stay,"  said  the  friar,  wildly.  "I  came  in  here 
but  for  a  moment ;  for  this  wretched  man  who  is  gone  to  his 
account  needed  one  as  wretched  and  as  wicked  as  himself.  But 
they  are  dying  now  in  the  streets  and  alleys,  calling  upon  the 
God  whom  they  know  not ;  they  need  the  vilest  sinner  to  whom 
the  Lord  has  been  gracious,  to  kneel  by  their  side ;  they  need 
the  vilest  sinner ;  therefore  I  must  go." 

He  stopped  for  a  moment,  then  he  said  more  calmly,  "  Meet 
me  in  the  Santa  Cbiara,  behind  the  altar,  by  the  tomb  of  the 
wise  King,  this  evening  at  sunset.  By  that  time,  though  the 
need  will  be  as  pressing,  yet  the  frail  body  wiU  need  a  little 
rest,  and  I  will  speak  with  you  for  an  hour.  Fail  not  to  come. 
You  will  learn  how  your  sword  was  the  sword,  and  your  breath 
was  the  breath,  of  the  Lord." 

"  I  will  surely  be  there,"  said  Inglesant. 

The  friar  departed,  leaving  the  priest  and  Inglesant  alone. 
They  went  out  into  the  garden  of  the  hospital,  a  plot  of  ground 
planted  with  fruit  trees,  and  with  vines  trailing  over  the  high 
stone  walls.  Walking  up  and  down  in  the  shade,  with  the 
intense  blue  of  the  sky  overhead,  one  might  for  a  time  forget 
the  carnival  of  death  that  was  crowding  every  street  and  lane 
around.  Inglesant  inquired  of  his  companion  more  particularly 
concerning  the  friar. 

"  He  is  a  very  holy  man,"  said  the  piiest,  with  a  significant 
gesture  ;  "  but  he  is  not  right  in  his  head.  His  sufi'erings  have 
touched  his  brain.     He  believes  that  he  has  seen  the  Lord  in 


CHAP.  XXXV.]  A  ROMANCE.  3SS 

a  vision,  and  not  only  so,  but  that  all  Rome  was  likeT^ise  a 
witness  of  the  miracle.  It  is  a  wonderful  story,  which  doubt- 
less he  wishes  to  relate  to  you  this  evening." 


CHAPTER   XXXV. 

In  the  vast  Church  of  the  Santa  Chiara,  with  its  open  nave 
which  spread  itself  on  every  side  like  a  magic  hall  of  romance, 
the  wide  floor  and  the  altars  of  the  side  Chapels  had  been 
crowded  all  day  by  prostrate  worshippers ;  but  when  Inglesant 
entered  it  about  sunset,  it  was  comparatively  empty.  A 
strange  imearthly  perfiune  filled  the  Church,  and  clouds  of 
incense  yet  hovered  beneath  the  painted  ceiling,  and  obscured 
the  figure  of  the  Saint  chasing  his  enemies.  Streaks  of  light, 
transfigiu-ed  through  the  colom'ed  prism  of  the  prophets  and 
martyrs  that  stood  in  the  painted  glass,  lighted  up  the  wreaths 
of  smoke,  and  coloured  the  marbles  and  frescoes  of  the  walls 
and  altars.  The  mystic  glimmer  of  the  sacred  tapers  in  the 
shaded  chapels,  and  the  concluding  strains  of  the  chanting 
before  the  side  altars,  which  had  followed  the  vesper  service 
and  benediction,  filled  the  Church  with  half  light  and  half 
shadow,  half  silence  and  half  sound,  very  pleasing  and  soothing 
to  the  sense. 

Inglesant  passed  up  the  Church  towards  the  high  altar, 
before  which  he  knelt ;  and  as  he  did  so,  a  procession,  carrying 
the  Sacrament,  entered  by  another  door,  and  advanced  to  the 
altar,  upon  which  it  was  again  deposited.  The  low,  melancholy 
miserere — half  entreating,  half  desponding — spoke  to  the  heart 
of  man  a  language  like  its  own ;  and  as  the  theme  was  taken 
up  by  one  of  the  organs,  the  builder's  art  and  the  musician's 
melt«3d  into  one — in  tier  after  tier  of  carved  imagery,  wave  after 
wave  of  mystic  sound.  All  conscious  thought  and  striving 
seemed  to  fade  from  the  heart,  and  before  the  altar  and  amid 
the  swell  of  sound  the  soul  lost  itself,  and  lay  silent  and  passive 
on  the  Eternal  Love. 

Behind  the  high  altar  Inglesant  foimd  the  friar  by  the 
grave  of  the  wise  Biing.  Upon  the  slabs  of  the  Gothic  tomb, 
covered  with  carving  and  bas-relief,  the  King  is  seated  and 
dressed  in  royal  robes;  but  upon  the  sarcophagus  he  lies  in 


390  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [cHAP.  XXXV. 

death  bereft  of  all  his  state,  and  clothed  in  no  garment  but  a 
Franciscan's  gown.  Beside  him  lies  hi^  son  in  his  royal  robes, 
covered  with  fleurs-de-lis ;  and  other  tombs  of  the  Mngly  race 
of  Anjou  surround  him,  all  emblazoned  with  coat  armour  and 
device  of  rank. 

Between  the  tombs  of  the  two  kings  stood  the  friar,  his 
head  bowed  upon  his  hands.  The  light  grew  every  moment 
less  and  less  bright,  and  the  shadows  stretched  ever  longer  and 
longer  across  the  marble  floor.  The  lamps  before  the  shrines, 
and  the  altar  tapers  in  the  funeral  chapels,  shone  out  clearer 
and  more  distinct.  The  organs  had  ceased,  but  the  dolorous 
chanting  of  the  miserere  from  beyond  the  high  altar  still  came 
to  them  with  a  remote  and  wailing  tone. 

Inglesant  advanced  towards  the  friar,  who  appeared  to  be 
aware  of  his  presence  by  instinct,  and  raised  his  head  as  he 
drew  near.  He  retiu-ned  no  answer  to  Inglesant's  greeting,  but 
seated  himself  upon  a  bench  near  one  of  the  tombs,  and  begdn 
at  once,  like  a  man  who  has  little  time  to  spend. 

"  I  am  desirous,"  he  said,  "  of  telling  you  at  once  of  what 
has  occurred  to  me.  Who  can  tell  what  may  happen  at  any 
moment  to  hinder  unless  I  do  ?  It  is  a  strange  and  wonderful 
story,  in  which  you  and  I  and  all  men  would  be  but  puppets  in 
the  Divine  Hand  were  not  the  Divine  Love  such  tliat  we  are 
rather  children  led  onward  by  their  Father's  hand — welcomed 
home  by  their  Mother's  smile." 

It  was  indeed  a  strange  story  that  the  friar  told  Inglesant 
in  the  darkening  Church.  In  places  it  was  incoherent  and 
obscure.  The  first  part  of  his  narrative,  as  it  relates  to  others 
besides  himself,  is  told  here  in  a  different  form,  so  that,  if 
possible,  what  really  happened  might  be  known.  The  latter 
part,  being  untranslatable  into  any  other  language  and  inexpli- 
cable upon  any  basis  of  fact,  must  be  told  in  his  own  words, 

"  When  you  left  me  at  the  mountain  chapel,"  said  the  friar, 
"  I  thought  of  nothing  but  that  I  had  escaped  with  life.  1 
thought  I  had  met  with  a  Fantastic,  whose  brain  was  turned 
with  monkish  fancies,  and  I  blessed  my  fortunate  stars  that 
such  had  been  the  case.  I  thought  little  of  the  Divine 
vengeance  that  dogged  my  steps." 

When  Inglesant  met  Malvolti  upon  th*  mountain  pass  (as 
he  gathered  from  the  friar's  narrative),  the  latter,  utterly  penni- 
less and  undone,  having  exhausted  every  shift  and  art  of  policy, 


CHAP.  XXXV.]  A  ROMANCE.  391 

and  being  so  well  known  in  all  the  cities  of  Italy  that  he  was 
safe  in  none  of  them,  had  bethought  himself  of  his  native  place. 
It  was,  indeed,  almost  the  only  place  where  his  character  waa 
unknown,  and  his  person  comparatively  safe.  But  it  had  other 
attractions  for  the  hunted  and  desperate  man.  Malvolti's  father 
had  died  when  his  son  was  a  boy,  and  his  mother  in  a  year  or 
two  married  again.  His  step-father  was  harsh  and  unkind  to 
the  fatherless  child,  and  the  seeds  of  evil  were  sown  in  the  boy's 
heart  by  the  treatment  he  received ;  but  a  year  after  this 
marriage  a  little  girl  was  born,  who  won  her  way  at  once  into 
the  heart  of  the  forlorn  and  unhappy  lad.  He  was  her  constant 
playmate,  protector,  and  instructor.  For  several  years  the  only 
happy  moments  of  his  life  were  passed  when  he  could  steal  away 
with  her  to  the  woods  and  hills,  wandering  for  hours  together 
alone  or  with  the  wood-cutters  and  charcoal-burners ;  and  when, 
after  a  few  years,  the  unkindness  of  his  parents  and  his  own 
restless  and  passionate  nature  sent  him  out  into  the  world  in 
which  he  played  so  evil  a  part,  the  image  of  the  innocent  child 
followed  him  into  scenes  of  vice,  and  was  never  obliterated  from 
his  memory.  The  murmur  of  the  leaves  above  the  fowling-floor 
where  they  lay  together  dimng  the  mid-day  heat,  the  splash  of 
the  fountains  where  they  watched  the  flocks  of  sheep  drinking, 
followed  him  into  strange  places  and  foreign  countries,  and 
arose  to  his  recollection  in  moments  of  danger,  and  even  of 
passion  and  crime. 

The  home  of  Malvolti's  parents  had  been  in  the  suburb  of 
a  small  town  of  the  Bolognese.  Here,  at  some  little  height 
above  the  town  on  the  slope  of  the  wooded  hills,  a  monastery 
and  chapel  had  been  erected,  and  in  course  of  time  some  few 
houses  had  grouped  themselves  around,  among  which  that  of 
Malvolti's  father  had  been  the  most  considerable.  The  sun  was 
setting  behind  the  hills  when  Malvolti,  weary,  dispirited,  and 
dying  of  hunger,  came  along  the  winding  road  from  the  south, 
which  skirted  the  projecting  spurs  of  the  mountains.  The 
slanting  rays  penetrated  the  woods,  and  shone  between  the 
openings  of  the  hills,  lighting  up  the  grass-grown  buildings  of 
the  monastery,  and  the  belfry  of  the  little  Chapel,  where  the 
bell  was  ringing  for  vespers.  Below,  the  plain  stretched  itself 
peacefally;  a  murmur  of  running  water  blended  with  the  tolling 
of  the  bell.  A  waft  of  peace  and  calm,  like  a  breeze  from 
paradise,  fell  upon   Malvolti's  heart,  and  he  seemed  to  hear 


392  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [cHAP.  XXXV. 

soft  voices  ■welcoming  him  home.  He  pictured  to  himself  his 
mother's  kind  greeting,  his  sister's  delight ;  even  his  stern  step- 
father's figure  was  softened  in  the  universal  evening  glow.  It 
was  a  ftiiry  vision,  in  whicli  the  passing  years  had  found  no 
place,  where  the  avenging  footsteps  that  follow  sin  did  not 
come,  and  which  had  no  reality  in  actual  existence.  He  turned 
the  angle  of  the  wood,  and  stood  before  his  home.  It  lay  in 
ruins  and  desolate. 

The  sun  sank  below  the  hills,  the  bell  went  on  tolling 
monotonously  through  the  deepening  gloom.  Dazed  and  faint, 
Malvolti  followed  its  tones  into  tlie  Chapel,  where  the  vesper 
service  began.  When  it  was  ended  the  miserable  man  spoke  to 
one  of  the  monks,  and  craved  8ome  food.  Deprived  of  his  last 
hope,  his  senses  faint  and  dull  with  weariness  and  hunger,  and 
lulled  by  the  soft  strains  of  devout  sound — his  life  confessed  at 
last  to  have  been  completely  a  failiure,  and  the  wages  of  sin  to 
have  turned  to  withered  leaves  in  bis  hand — his  heart  was  more 
disposed  than  perhaps  it  had  ever  been  to  listen  to  the  soft 
accents  of  penitence,  and  to  hear  the  whispering  murmur  that 
haimts  the  shadowy  walks  of  mortified  repentance.  Comforted 
by  food,  the  kindly  words  of  pity  and  exhortation  stole  upon 
his  senses,  and  he  almost  fancied  that  he  might  find  a  home 
and  peace  without  further  wandering  and  punishment.  He 
was  much  deceived. 

He  inquired  concerning  the  fate  of  those  whom,  debased 
and  selfish  as  he  was,  he  still  loved,  especially  now,  when  the 
sight  of  long -forgotten  but  still  familiar  places  recalled  the 
past,  and  seemed  to  obliterate  the  intervening  years.  The 
monks  told  him  a  story  of  sorrow  and  of  sin,  such  as  he  himself 
often  had  participated  in,  and  would  have  heard  at  another 
time  with  a  smile  of  indifference.  His  step-father  was  dead, 
killed  in  a  feud  which  his  own  insolent  temper  had  provoked. 
His  mother  and  sister  had  continued  for  some  time  to  live  in 
the  same  house,  and  there  perhaps  he  might  have  found  them, 
had  not  a  gentleman,  whose  convenience  had  led  him  to  claim 
the  hospitality  of  the  monastery  for  a  night's  rest,  chanced  to 
see  his  sister  in  the  morning  as  he  mounted  his  horse.  The 
sight  of  a  face,  whose  beauty  combined  a  haughty  clearness  of 
outline  with  a  certain  coy  softness  of  expression,  and  a  figure  of 
perfect  form,  detained  him  from  his  intended  journey,  and  he 
ol  tained  admittance  into  the  widow's  hous^.    What  wizard  arts 


CHAP.  XXXV.]  A  ROMANCE.  393 

he  practised  the  monks  did  not  know,  but  when  he  departed  he 
left  anxiety  and  remorse  where  he  had  found  content  and  a 
certain  peace.  In  due  time  the  two  women,  despairing  of  his 
return,  had  followed  him,  and  the  younger,  the  m(mks  had 
heard  (and  they  believed  the  report) — ill-treated  and  spurned — 
was  now  living  in  Florence  a  life  of  sin.  The  softened  expres- 
sion of  rest  and  penitence  which  had  begun  to  show  itself  in 
Malvolti's  face  left  it,  and  the  more  habitual  one  of  cruel  and 
hungry  sin  returned  as  he  inquired, — 

"Did  the  Eeverend  Fathers  remember  the  name  of  this 
manf 

The  good  monks  hesitated  as  they  saw  the  look  in  the  in- 
quii-er's  face ;  but  it  was  not  their  duty  to  conceal  the  truth 
from  one  who  undoubtedly  had  a  right  to  be  informed  of  it. 

"  It  is  our  duty  to  practise  forgiveness,  even  of  the  greatest 
injuries,  my  son,"  one  of  them  replied ;  "  oiu-  blessed  Lord  has 
enjoined  it,  and  left  us  this  as  an  example,  that  He  has  forgiven 
us.     The  man  was  called  il  Cavaliere  di  Guardino." 

The  monks  were  relieved  when  they  saw  that  their  guest 
showed  no  emotion  upon  hearing  this  name ;  only  he  said  that 
he  must  go  to  Florence  and  endeavour  to  find  his  sister. 

But  in  truth  there  was  in  the  man's  mind,  under  a  calm 
exterior,  a  crisis  of  feeling  not  easy  to  describe.  That  the 
Cavaliere,  his  familiar  accomplice,  in  whose  company  and  by 
whose  aid  he  had  himself  so  often  committed  ravages  upon  the 
innocent,  should,  in  the  chance  medley  of  life,  be  selected  to 
inflict  this  blow,  affected  him  in  a  strange  and  unaccustomed 
way,  with  the  sense  of  a  hitherto  unrecognized  justice  at  work 
among  the  affairs  of  men.  He  was  so  utterly  at  the  end  of  all 
his  hopes,  life  was  so  completely  closed  to  him,  and  his  soul 
was  so  sorely  stricken,  in  return  for  all  his  sins,  in  the  only 
holy  and  sacred  spot  that  remained  in  his  fallen  nature, — his 
love  and  remembrance  of  his  sister, — that  it  seemed  as  if  a 
revulsion  of  feeling  might  take  place,  and  that,  in  this  depth 
and  slough,  there  might  appear,  though  dimly,  the  possibility 
of  an  entrance  into  a  higher  life.  He  was  better  known  in 
Florence  than  in  any  city  of  Italy,  except  Rome;  and  if  he 
went  there  his  violent  death  was  almost  certain,  yet  he  de- 
termined to  go.  He  assured  Ingiesant  afterwards,  in  relating 
the  story,  that  his  object  was  not  revenge,  but  that  his  desire 
was  to  seek  out  and  rescue  his  sister.      Revenge   doubtless 


394  JOHN  INGLESANl  ;  [chap.  xxxv. 

brooded  i:i  his  mind ;  but  it  was  not  the  motive  which  urged 
him  onward. 

He  told  Ing-lesant  a  strange  stoiy  of  his  weary  journey  to 
Florence,  subsisting  on  charitr  from  convent  to  convent;  of  his 
wandering  up  and  down  in  the  beautiful  city,  worn  out  with 
hunger  and  fatigue,  unknown,  and  hiding  himself  from  recogni- 
tion. Amid  the  grim  forms  of  vice  that  haunted  the  shadowy 
recesses  of  the  older  parts  of  the  city,  in  the  vaulted  halls  of 
deserted  palaces  and  the  massive  fastnesses  of  patrician  strife, 
he  flitted  Uke  a  ghost,  pale  and  despairing,  urged  on  by  a  rest- 
less desire  that  knew  no  respite.  In  these  dens  of  a  reckless 
life,  which  had  thrown  off"  all  restraint  and  decorum,  he  recog- 
nized many  whom  he  had  known  in  other  days,  and  in  far 
different  places.  In  these  gloomy  halls,  which  had  once  been 
bright  with  youth  and  gaiety,  but  were  now  hideous  with 
poverty  and  crime, — in  which  the  windows  were  darkened,  and 
the  coloured  ceilings  and  frescoed  walls  were  blurred  with 
smoke  and  damp,  and  which  were  smTounded  by  narrow  alleys 
which  shut  out  the  light,  and  cut  them  off  from  all  connection 
with  the  outer  world, — he  at  last  heard  of  the  Cavaliere.  He 
was  told  that,  flying  from  Home  after  his  sister's  marriage,  he 
had  been  arrested  for  some  oftence  in  the  south  of  Italy,  and 
those  into  whose  hands  he  fell  being  old  enemies,  and  bearing 
him  some  grudge,  he  was  thrown  into  prison,  and  even  con- 
demned to  the  galleys,  for,  since  the  Papal  election,  he  was  no 
longer  able  to  claim  even  a  shadow  of  protection  from  any  of 
the  great  families  who  had  once  been  his  patrons.  After  a 
short  imprisonment  he  was  deputed,  among  others,  to  perform 
some  such  office  as  Inglesant  had  seen  undertaken  by  the  slaves 
in  Naples,  for  the  plague  had  raged  for  some  summers  past, 
with  more  or  less  intensity,  in  southern  Italy.  While  engaged 
in  this  work*lie  had  managed  to  make  his  escape,  and  had  not 
long  since  arrived  in  Florence,  where  he  had  kept  himself 
closely  concealed.  Malvolti  was  told  the  secret  liurking-place 
where  he  might  probably  be  found. 

"It  was  a  brilliantly  hot  afternoon,"  continued  Malvolti, 
speaking  very  slowly ;  "  you  will  wonder  that  I  tell  you  this ; 
but  it  was  the  l?.st  time  that  I  ever  saw  the  sun.  I  remember 
the  bright  and  burning  pavements  even  in  the.  narrow  alleys 
out  of  which  I  turned  into  the  long  and  daik  entries  and 
vaulted  rooms.     I  followed  some  persons  who  entered  before 


CHAP.  XXXV.]  A  ROMANCE.  395 

me,  and  some  voices  which  led  me  onward,  into  a  long  and  lofty 
room  in  the  upper  stories,  at  the  farther  end  of  which,  before 
a  high  window  partially  boarded  up,  some  men  were  at  play. 
As  I  came  up  the  room,  all  the  other  parts  of  which  lay  in 
deep  shadow,  the  light  fell  strongly  upon  a  corner  of  the  table, 
and  upon  the  man  who  was  casting  the  dice.  He  had  just 
thrown  his  chance,  and  he  turned  his  head  as  I  came  up.  He 
appeared  to  be  naked  except  his  slippers  and  a  cloak  or  blanket 
of  white  cloth,  with  pale  yellow  stripes.  His  hair  was  closely 
cropped;  his  face,  which  was  pale  and  aquiline,  was  scarred 
and  seamed  with  deep  lines  of  guilt  and  misery,  especially 
around  the  eyes,  from  which  flashed  a  lurid  light,  and  his  lips 
were  parted  with  a  mocking  and  Satanic  laugh.  His  dark  and 
massive  throat  and  chest  and  his  long  and  sinewy  arms  forced 
their  way  out  of  the  cloth  with  which  he  was  wrapped,  and  the 
lean  fingers  of  both  hands,  which  crossed  each  other  convulsivelv, 
were  pointed  exultantly  to  the  deuce  of  ace  which  he  had  thrown. 
The  last  sight  I  ever  saw,  the  last  sight  my  eyes  will  ever 
behold  imtil  they  open  befure  the  throne  of  God,  was  this 
demon-like  figm'e,  standing  out  clear  and  distinct  against  the 
shadowy  gloom  in  which  dim  figures  seemed  to  move,  and  the 
dice  upon  the  table  by  his  side. 

"He  burst  out  into  a  wild  and  mocking  laugh.  *Ali, 
Malvolti,'  he  said,  'you  were  ever  unlucky  at  the  dice.  Come 
and  take  yom*  chances  in  the  next  main.' 

''I  know  not  what  fiu-y  possessed  me,  nor  why,  at  that 
moment  especially,  this  man's  mocking  villainy  inspired  me  with 
such  headlong  rage.  I  remembered  nothing  but  the  crimes  and 
wrongs  which  he  had  perpetrated.  I  drew  the  dagger  I  carried 
beneath  my  clothes,  and  sprang  upon  him  with  a  cry  as  wild  as 
his  own.  What  happened  I  cannot  tell.  I  seemed  to  hear 
the  laughter  of  fiends,  and  to  feel  the  tortures  of  hell  on  every 
side.     Then  all  was  darkness  and  the  grave." 

Overpowered  as  it  seemed  by  the  recollection  of  his  suffer- 
ings, the  friar  paused  and  sank  upon  his  knees  upon  the  pave- 
ment. The  miserere  had  died  away,  and  a  profound  gloom, 
broken  only  by  the  flicker  of  tapers,  filled  the  Church.  Ingle- 
sant  was  deeply  moved, — less,  however,  by  sj-mpathy  with  the 
man's  story  than  by  the  consciousness  of  the  emotions  which  he 
himself  experienced.  It  was  scarcely  possible  to  beHeve  that 
he  was  the  same  man  who,  some  short  years  before,  had  longed 


396  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap.  xxxv. 

for  this  meeting  with  a  bloodthirsty  desire  that  he  might  take 
some  terrible  vengeance  upon  his  brother's  murderer.  Now  he 
stood  before  the  same  murderer,  who  not  so  long  before  had 
attempted  to  take  his  life  also  with  perhaps  the  very  dagger  of 
which  he  now  spoke;  and  as  he  looked  down  upon  him,  no 
feeling  b'lt  that  of  pity  was  in  his  heart.  In  the  presence  of 
the  awful  visitant  who  at  that  moment  was  filling  the  city 
which  lay  around  them  with  death  and  corruption,  and  before 
whose  eternal  power  the  strife  and  enmity  of  man  shrank  away 
appalled  and  silenced,  it  was  not  wonderful  that  inordinate 
hate  should  cease;  but,  as  he  gazed  upon  the  prostrate  man 
before  him,  an  awe-inspiring  feeling  took  possession  of  Ingle- 
sant's  mind,  which  still  more  effectually  crushed  every  sentiment 
of  anger  or  revenge.  The  significance  of  his  own  half-conceived 
action  was  revealed  to  him,  and  he  recognized,  with  something 
approaching  to  terror,  that  the  cause  was  no  longer  his,  that' 
another  hand  had  interposed  to  strike,  and  that  his  sword  had 
spared  the  murderer  of  his  brother  only  that  he  might  become 
the  victim  of  that  divine  vengeance  which  has  said,  "I  will 
repay." 

The  friar  rose  from  his  knees.  "  I  found  myself  in  the 
monastery  of  the  Cappuccini  on  the  bank  of  the  river,  blind, 
and  holding  life  by  the  faintest  thread.  That  I  lived  was  a 
miracle.  I  had  been  struck  with  some  twenty  wounds,  and  in 
mere  wantonness  my  eyes  had  been  pierced  as  I  lay  apparently 
dead.  I  was  thrown  into  the  river  which  flowed  by  gloomy 
vaults  beneath  the  houses,  and  had  been  carried  down  by  the 
stream  to  the  garden  of  a  monastery  where  I  was  found.  As  I 
recovered  strength  the  monks  thought  that  my  reason  would 
not  survive.  For  days  and  nights  I  lay  bound  a  raving  mad- 
man. At  last,  when  my  pains  subsided,  and  my  mind  was  a 
little  calmed  and  subdued,  I  was  sent  out  into  the  world  and 
begged  my  way  firom  village  to  village,  not  caring  where  I  went, 
my  mind  an  utter  blank,  filled  only  now  and  then  with  horrible 
sights  and  dreams.  I  had  no  sense  of  God  or  Christ ;  no  feeling 
but  a  blind  senseless  despair  and  confusion.  Thus  I  wandered 
on.  I  got  at  last  a  boy  to  lead  me  and  buy  me  food.  I  know 
not  why  I  did  not  rather  lie  down  and  die.  Sometimes  I  did 
fling  myself  down,  resolving  not  to  move  again ;  but  some  love 
of  life  or  some  iivine  prompting  caused  me  to  rise  and  wander 
on  in  my  miserable  path.    At  last,  towards  the  end  of  the  year, 


CHAP.  XXXV.  1  A  ROMANCE.  397 

I  came  to  Rome,  and  wandered  about  the  city  seeking  alms. 
The  boy  who  led  me,  and  who  had  attached  himself  to  nu,  God 
knows  why,  told  me  all  he  saw  and  all  that  passed  ;  and  I,  who 
knew  every  phase  and  incident  of  Roman  life,  explained  to  him 
such  things  in  a  languid  and  indifferent  way,  for  I  found  nrt 
pleasure  nor  relief  in  anything.  I  grew  more  and  more  miser- 
able ;  our  life  was  hard,  and  we  were  ill  fed,  and  the  terrors  of 
my  memory  haunted  my  spirits,  weakened  and  depressed  for 
want  of  food.  The  forms  of  those  whom  I  had  wronged,  nay, 
mm-dered,  lay  before  me.  They  rose  and  looked  upon  me  from 
every  side.  My  misery  was  greater  than  I  could  bear.  I 
desired  death  and  tried  to  accomplish  it,  but  my  hand  always 
failed.  I  bought  poison,  but  my  boy  watched  me  and  changed 
the  drink.  I  did  not  know  this,  and  expected  death.  It  did 
not  come.  Then  suddenly,  as  I  lay  in  a  kind  of  trance,  that 
morning  in  the  mountain  pass  came  into  my  remembrance,  and 
it  flashed  suddenly  into  my  mind  that  I  was  not  my  own  ;  that 
no  poison  could  hurt  me,  no  sword  slay  me  ;  that  the  sword  of 
vengeance  was  in  the  Lord's  hand,  and  would  work  His  will 
alone.  What  greater  punishment  could  be  in  store  for  me  I 
knew  not,  but  stunned  by  this  idea  I  ceased  to  strive  and  cry 
any  more.  I  waited  in  silence  for  the  final  blow;  it  came. 
The  year  had  come  nearly  to  an  end,  and  it  was  Christmas  Eve. 
All  day  long,  in  the  Churches  in  Rome,  had  the  services,  the 
processions,  the  religious  shows,  gone  on.  My  boy  and  I  had 
followed  them  one  by  one,  and  he  had,  in  his  boyish  way,  told 
me  all  that  he  saw.  The  new  Pope  went  in  procession  to  S. 
Giovanni  in  Laterano,  with  all  the  Cardinals,  Patriarchs,  Arch- 
bishops, and  Bishops,  all  the  nobility  and  courtiers,  and  an 
interminable  length  of  attendants,  Switzers,  soldiers,  led  horses, 
servants,  pages,  rich  coaches,  litters,  and  people  of  every  class, 
under  triumphal  arches,  with  all  excess  of  joy  and  triumph. 
As  midnight  drew  on  the  streets  were  as  light  as  day.  Every 
pageant  became  more  gorgeous,  every  service  more  sweet  and 
ravishing,  every  sermon  more  passionate.  I  saw  it  all  in  my 
mind's  eye, — all,  and  much  besides.  I  saw  in  every  Church, 
lighted  by  sacred  tapers  before  the  crucifix,  the  pageants  and 
ceremonies  that,  in  every  form  and  to  every  sense,  present  the 
story  of  the  mystic  birth,  of  that  divine  fact  that  alone  can 
stay  the  longing  which,  since  men  walked  the  earth,  they  have 
uttered  in  every  tongue,  that  the  Deity  would  come  down  and 


398  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [cHAP.  XXXV. 

dwell  with  man.  We  had  wandered  through  all  the  Churches, 
and  at  last,  wearied  out,  we  reached  the  Capitol,  and  sank  down 
beneath  the  balusters  at  the  top  of  the  marble  stairs.  Close 
by,  in  the  Ara  Cceli,  the  simple  country  people  and  the  faithfid 
whose  hearts  were  as  those  of  little  children,  kneeling  as  the 
shepherds  knelt  upon  the  plains  of  Bethlehem,  saw  the  Christ- 
Child  lying  in  a  manger,  marked  out  from  common  childhood  by 
a  mystic  light  which  shone  from  His  foce  and  form ;  while  the 
organ  harmonies  which  filled  the  Chiu*ch  resigned  their  wonted 
splendoTU's,  and  bent  for  once  to  pastoral  melodies,  which,  born 
amid  the  rustling  of  sedges  by  the  river  brink,  have  wandered 
down  through  the  reed-music  and  festivals  of  the  country  people, 
till  they  grew  to  be  the  most  fitting  tones  of  a  religion  which 
takes  its  aptest  similes  from  the  vineyard  and  the  flock.  All 
over  Rome  the  flicker  of  the  bonfires  mingled  with  the  starlight. 
I  was  blind,  yet  I  saw  much  that  would  have  been  hidden  from 
me  had  I  been  able  to  see.  I  saw  across  the  roofs  before  me, 
the  dome  of  the  Pantheon  and  St.  Peter's,  and  the  long  line  of 
the  Vatican,  and  the  round  outline  of  St.  Angelo  in  the  light 
of  the  waning  moon.  This  I  should  have  seen  had  I  had  my 
sight ;  but  I  saw  behind  me  now  what  otherwise  I  shoidd  not 
have  seen — the  Forum,  and  the  Hues  of  arches  and  ruins,  and 
beyond  these  the  walks  of  the  Aventine  and  of  the  Ccelian,  with 
their  vineyai'ds  and  white  convents,  and  tall  poplar  and  cypress 
trees.  I  saw  beyond  them  the  great  Churches  of  the  Lateran 
and  Santa  Croce  in  Gerusalemme,  standing  out  from  the  green 
country,  pale  and  spectral  in  the  light.  To  the  left  I  saw  Santa 
Maria  Maggiore,  stately  and  gorgeous,  fiicing  the  long  streets  of 
palaces  and  courts,  and  the  gardens  and  terraces  of  the  Quirinale, 
all  distinct  and  clear  in  the  mystic  light.  The  white  light 
covered  the  earth  like  a  shroud,  and  over  the  vault  of  the  sky 
were  traced,  by  the  pale  stars,  strange  and  obscure  forms,  as 
over  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's  at  evening  when  the  Church  is 
dim.  A  confused  sound  filled  my  ears,  a  sound  of  chanting  and 
of  praise  for  that  advent  that  brought  peace  to  men,  a  sound  of 
innumerable  passing  feet,  and  in  all  the  Churches  and  Basilicas 
I  saw  the  dead  Chri^s  over  the  altars  and  the  kneeling  crowds 
aromid.  Suddenly  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  was  conscious  of  a 
general  movement  and  rush  of  feet,  and  that  a  strange  and  wild 
excitement  prevailed  in  every  region  of  Rome.  The  Chm-ches 
became  emptied,  the  people  pouring  out  into  the  streets ;  the 


CHAP.  XXXV.]  A  ROMANCE.  399 

dead  Clirists  above  the  altars  faded  from  their  crosses,  and  the 
sacred  tapers  went  out  of  their  own  accord ;  for  it  spread  through 
Rome,  as  in  a  moment,  that  a  miracle  had  happened  at  the  Ara 
Cceli,  and  that  the  living  Christ  was  come.  From  where  I 
stood  I  could  see  the  throngs  of  people  poiu"ing  through  every 
street  and  lane,  and  thronging  up  to  the  Campidogho  and  the 
stairs ;  and  from  the  distance  and  the  pale  Canipagna,  and  San 
Paolo  without  the  walls,  and  from  subterranean  Rome,  where 
the  martyrs  and  confessors  lie,  I  could  see  strange  and  mystic 
shapes  come  sweeping  in  through  the  brilliant  light. 

"  He  came  down  the  steps  of  the  Ara  Coeli,  and  the  sky  was 
full  of  starlike  forms,  wonderful  and  gracious  ;  and  all  the  steps 
of  the  Capitol  were  fidl  of  people  down  to  the  square  of  the  Ara 
Coeli,  and  up  to  the  statue  of  Aurelius  on  horseback  above ; 
and  the  summit  of  the  Capitol  among  the  statues,  and  the  leads 
of  the  palace  Caffarelli,  were  full  of  eager  forms,  for  the  star- 
light was  so  clear  that  all  might  see ;  and  the  dead  gods,  and 
the  fauns,  and  the  satyrs,  and  the  old  pagans,  that  lurked  in 
the  secret  hiding-places  of  the  ruins  of  the  Caesars,  crowded  up 
the  steps  out  of  the  Forum,  and  came  round  the  outskirts  of 
the  crowd,  and  stood  on  the  fallen  pillars  that  they  might  see ; 
and  Castor  and  Pollux,  that  stood  by  their  unsaddled  horses 
at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  left  them  unheeded  and  came  to  see ; 
and  the  Marsyas  who  stood  bound  broke  his  bonds  and  came  to 
see ;  and  spectral  forms  swept  in  from  the  distance  in  the  light, 
and  the  air  was  full  of  Powers  and  Existences,  and  the  earth 
rocked  as  at  the  Judgment  Day. 

"  He  came  down  the  steps  into  the  Campidoglio,  and  He 
came  to  me.  He  was  not  at  all  like  the  pictures  of  the  saints ; 
for  He  was  pale,  and  worn,  and  thin,  as  though  the  fight  was 
not  yet  half  over — ah  no  ! — but  through  this  pale  and  worn 
look  shone  infinite  power,  and  undying  love,  and  unquenchable 
resolve.  The  crowd  fell  back  on  every  side,  but  when  He  came  ■ 
to  me  He  stopped.  '  Ah  !'  he  said,  4s  it  thou'?  What  doest 
thou  here?  Knowest  thou  not  that  thou  art  mine?  Thrice 
mine — mine  centuries  ago  when  I  hung  upon  the  cross  on 
Calvary  for  such  as  thou — mine  years  ago,  when  thou  camest  a 
little  child  to  the  font — mine  once  again,  when,  forfeit  by  every 
law,  thou  wast  given  over  to  me  by  one  who  is  a  servant  and 
friend  of  mine.  Surely,  I  will  repay.'  As  He  spoke,  a  shudder 
and  a  trembling  ran  through  the  crowd,  as  if  stirred  by  the 


400  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [cHAP.  xxxv 

breath  of  His  voice.  Nature  seemed  to  rally  and  to  grow 
beneath  Him,  and  heaven  to  bend  down  to  touch  the  earth. 
A  healing  sense  of  help  and  comfort,  like  the  gentle  dew,  visited 
the  weary  heart.  A  great  cry  and  shout  rose  from  the  crowd, 
and  He  passed  on ;  but  among  ten  thousand  times  ten  thousand 
I  should  know  Him,  and  amid  the  tumult  of  a  universe  I  should 
hear  the  faintest  whisper  of  His  voice." 

The  friar  stopped  and  looked  at  Inglesant  with  his  darkened 
eyeballs,  as  though  he  could  read  his  looks.  Inglesant  gazed 
at  him  in  silence.  That  the  man  was  crazed  he  had  no  doubt ; 
but  that  his  madness  should  have  taken  this  particular  form 
appeared  to  his  listener  scarcely  less  miraculous  than  if  every 
word  of  his  wonderful  story  had  been  true. 

"  Heard  you  nothing  else?"  he  said  at  last. 

An  expression  of  something  like  trouble  passed  over  the 
other's  face. 

"  No,"  he  said  in  a  quieter  voice ;  "  by  this  time  it  was 
morning.  The  artillery  of  St.  Angelo  went  off.  His  Holiness 
sang  mass,  and  all  day  long  was  exposed  the  cradle  of  the 
Lord." 

There  was  another  pause  which  Inglesant  scarcely  knew 
how  to  break.     Then  he  said, — 

"And  have  you  heard  nothing  since  of  the  Cavaliere?" 

"  He  is  in  this  neighbourhood,"  said  Malvolti,  •'  but  I  have 
not  found  him.  I  wondered  and  was  impatient,  ignorant  and 
foolish  as  I  am ;  now  I  know  the  reason.  The  Lord  waited 
till  you  came.  How  could  he  be  found  except  by  us  both  1 
We  must  lose  no  time,  or  it  will  be  too  late.  How  did  you 
know  that  he  was  here  1 " 

Inglesant  told  him, 

"  It  was  the  Lord's  doing,"  said  the  friar,  a  light  breaking 
over  his  darkened  face.  "  It  was  Capece.  You  remember,  at 
Florence,  the  leader  of  that  extravagant  frolic  of  the  Carnival^ 
who  was  dressed  as  a  corpse  ? " 

"  I  remember,"  said  Inglesant,  "  and  the  poor  English  lad 
who  v/as  killed." 

"He  is  one  of  the  Lord's  servants,"  continued  the  friar, 
"  whom  He  called  very  late.  I  do  not  know  that  he  was  guilty 
of  any  particular  sins,  but  he  was  the  heir  of  a  poor  family,  and 
lived  for  many  years  in  luxury  and  excess.  He  was  brought 
under  the  influence  of  Molinos's  party,  and  shortly  after  I  had 


CHAP.  XXXVI.]  A  ROMANCR  401 

seen  the  Lord,  he  came  to  me  to  know  whether  he  should 
become  a  religious.  I  told  him  I  thought  there  was  a  time  of 
trial  and  of  sifting  for  the  Lord's  people  at  hand,  and  that  I 
thought  the  strongholds  were  the  safest  spots.  He  joined  the 
order  de  Servi..  Not  three  weeks  ago  I  was  with  him  at 
Frascati,  at  the  house  of  the  Cappuccini,  when  I  heard  that 
the  Cavaliere  was  here.  You  must  have  seen  him  three  or  four 
days  afterwards." 


CHAPTER   XXXVL 

The  night  after  Inglesant  had  met  the  friar  in  Naples  there 
was  "  the  sound  of  abundance  of  rain,"  and  the  "  plague  was 
stayed."  As  constantly  happened  in  the  cities  desolated  by 
this  mysterious  pestilence,  no  adequate  reason  could  be  per- 
ceived for  its  cessation.  Some  change  in  the  state  of  the 
atmosphere  took  place,  and  the  sick  did  not  die,  at  least  in  the 
same  proportion  as  formerly.  This  was  the  only  indication 
that  the  most  acute  observer  could  detect ;  but  the  change  was 
marvellously  rapid.  The  moment  that  contact  with  the  dead 
bodies  became  less  fatally  infectious,  help  offered  on  all  sides, 
tempted  by  the  large  rewards.  The  dead  rapidly  disappeared 
from  sight,  and  the  city  began  to  resume  something  of  its 
ordinary  appearance.  The  terrors  of  the  grave  vanished  into 
air,  and  gloomy  resolutions  faded  from  the  mind.  The  few 
survivors  of  the  devoted  men  who,  throughout  the  heat  of  the 
conflict,  had  remained  at  their  posts,  were,  many  of  them  at 
least,  forgotten  and  overlooked;  for  their  presence  was  an 
unpleasing  reminder  to  those  whose  conduct  had  been  of  a  far 
more  prudent  and  selfish  sort.  Those  who  had  fled  returned 
into  the  city  to  look  after  their  deserted  homes,  and  to  re-open 
their  shops.  The  streets  and  markets  were  once  more  gay 
with  wares.  The  friar  was  now  as  eager  to  leave  Naples  as  he 
had  before  been  determined  to  remain.  His  sole  object  was  to 
find  the  Cavaliere,  and  he  constantly  insisted  that  no  time  was 
to  be  lost  if  they  wished  to  see  him  alive.  They  left  Naples 
together ;  the  friar  mounted  upon  a  mule  which  Inglesant  pur- 
chased for  him. 

Notwithstanding  the  friar's  eagerness,  their  journey  wai 
2d 


402  JOHN  inglesant;  [chap,  xxxvi, 

slow,  for  he  was  not  able  to  resist  the  impulse  to  turn  aside  to 
help  when  any  appearance  of  distiess  or  poverty  called  upon 
them  for  aid.  Inglesant  was  not  impatient  at  this  delay,  nor 
at  the  erratic  and  ai>parently  meaningless  course  of  their  singu- 
lar journey.  The  country  was  delightful  after  the  heavy  rains, 
and  seemed  to  rejoice,  together  with  its  inhabitants,  at  the 
abatement  of  the  plague.  People  who  had  remained  shut  up 
in  their  houses  in  fear  now  appeared  freely  in  the  once  deserted 
roads.  Doors  were  thrown  open,  and  the  voice  of- the  lute  and 
of  singing  was  heard  again  in  the  land.  As  for  those  who  had 
passed  away,  it  was  wonderful  how  soon  their  name  was  for- 
gotten, as  of  "  a  dead  man  out  of  mind ;"  and  those  who  had 
come  into  comfortable  inheritance  of  fruit -closes,  and  ohve- 
grounds  and  vineyards,  and  of  houses  of  pleasure  in  the  fields, 
which,  but  for  the  pestilence,  had  never  been  theirs,  soon  found 
it  possible  to  reconcile  themselves  to  the  absence  of  the  dead. 

For  some  time  after  leaving  Naples  the  road  lay  through  a 
richly  cultivated  land,  with  long  straight  ditches  on  either  side. 
Rows  of  forest  trees  crossed  the  country,  and  shaded  the  small 
closes  of  fruit-trees  and  vines.  Here  and  there  a  wine  tavern, 
or  a  few  cottages,  or  a  village  church,  stopped  them.  At  all 
of  these  the  friar  alighted  from  his  mide,  ani  made  inquiries 
for  any  who  were  ill  or  in  distress.  In  this  way  they  came 
across  a  number  of  people  of  the  peasant  class,  and  heard  the 
story  of  their  lives ;  and  now  and  then  a  rehgious,  or  a  country 
signore,  riding  by  on  his  mule  or  palfrey,  stopped  to  speak  with 
them. 

They  had  proceeded  for  many  days  through  this  cultivated 
country,  and  had  at  last,  after  many  turnings,  reached  that  part 
of  the  road  which  approaches  the  slopes  of  the  Apennines  about 
Frosinone.  The  path  wound  among  the  hills,  the  slopes  covered 
with  chestnut  trees,  and  the  crags  crowned  with  the  remains  of 
Gothic  castles.  Fields  of  maize  filled  the  valleys,  and  lines  of 
lofty  poplars  crossed  the  yellow  corn.  As  the  road  ascended, 
distant  reaches  of  forest  and  campagna  lay  in  bright  sunlight 
between  the  craggy  rocks,  and  down  the  wooded  glens  cascades 
fell  into  rapid  streams  spanned  here  and  there  by  a  half-ruined 
bridge.  At  last  they  entered  a  deep  ravine  of  volcanic  tufa, 
much  of  which  cropped  out  from  the  surface,  cold  ami  bare. 
Between  these  sterile  rocks  laurels  forced  their  way,  and  spread 
out  their  broad  and  brilliant  leaves.     Crecpiig  plants  himg  in 


CHAP.  XXXVI.]  A  ROMANCE.  403 

long  and  waving  festoons,  and  pines  and  forest  trees  of  great 
size  crowned  the  summits.  Here  and  there  sepulchral  excavar 
tions  were  cut  in  the  rock,  and  more  than  one  sarcophagus, 
carved  with  figures  in  relief,  stood  by  the  wayside. 

The  air  in  these  ravines  was  close  and  hot,  and  sulphurous 
streams  emitted  an  unpleasant  odoiu-  as  they  rode  along. 
Inglesaut  felt  oppressed  and  ill.  The  valley  of  the  Shadow  of 
Death,  out  of  which  he  had  come  into  the  cool  pastiu-es  and 
olive -yards,  had  left  upon  the  mind  an  exaltation  of  feeling 
rather  than  terror :  and  in  the  history  of  the  friar,  through  the 
coiu-se  of  which  traces  of  a  devised  plan  penetrated  the  confusion 
of  a  disordered  brain,  the  gi-acious  jDrediction  of  Molinos  seemed 
to  promise  fulfilment.  The  supreme  effort  of  Divine  mercy  • 
surely  is  that  which  shapes  the  faltering  and  unconscious  actions 
of  man  into  a  beneficent  and  everlasting  work. 

But  the  very  clearness  and  calm  of  this  transcendental  air 
produced  a  wavering  of  the  spiritual  sense ;  and  the  companion- 
ship of  a  blind  enthusiast,  who,  from  the  lowest  depth  of  reck- 
less sin,  had  suddenly  attained  a  height  of  religious  fervour, 
did  not  tend  to  reduce  the  fever  of  his  thoughts.  The  scenes 
and  forms  of  death  with  which  he  had  been  familiar  in  Naples 
returned  again  and  again  before  his  eyes,  and  his  old  disease 
again  tormented  him ;  so  that  once  more  he  saw  strange  figures 
and  shapes  walking  by  the  wayside.  These  images  of  a 
disordered  fancy  jostled  and  confused  his  spiritual  perceptions. 
He  felt  wearied  by  those,  thoughts  and  desires  which  had 
formerly  been  dear  to  him,  and  the  ceaseless  reiteration  of  the 
friar's  enthusiastic  conceptions  jarred  and  irritated  him  more 
than  he  liked  to  confess.  The  brain  of  the  bhnd  man,  un- 
occupied by  the  sights  of  this  world,  was  full  of  visions  of  a 
mystic  existence,  blended  and  confused  with  such  incidents  and 
stories  of  earth  as  he  had  heard  along  the  way.  With  such 
phantasmal  imaginations  he  filled  Inglesant's  ears. 

Proceeding  in  this  manner,  they  came  to  a  place  where  the 
ravine,  opening  out  a  little,  exposed  a  distant  view  of  the 
Campagna,  with  its  aqueducts  and  ruined  tombs.  At  the 
opening  of  the  valley  stood  one  of  those  isolated  rocks  so  strange 
to  English  eyes,  yet  so  frequently  seen  in  the  paintings  of  the 
old  masters,  crowned  with  the  ruins  of  a  Temple,  and  fringed 
with  trees  of  delicate  foliage,  poplars  and  pines.  At  the  foot 
of  the  rock  an  arch  of  ruined  brickwork,  covered  with  waving 


404  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [cHAP.  XXXVI. 

grass  and  creepers,  spanned  the  road  with  a  wide  sweep,  and 
on  the  opposite  side  a  black  sidphurons  pool  exhaled  a  constant 
vapour.  Masses  of  strange,  nameless  masonry,  of  an  antiquity 
dateless  and  undefined,  bedded  themselves  in  the  rocks,  or  over- 
hung the  clefts  of  the  hills ;  and  out  of  a  great  tomb  by  the 
wayside,  near  the  arch,  a  forest  of  laurel  forced  its  way,  amid 
delicate  and  graceful  frieze-work,  moss-covered  and  staiued  with 
age. 

In  this  strangely  desolate  and  ruinous  spot,  where  the 
fantastic  shapes  of  nature  seem  to  mourn  in  weird  fellowship 
with  the  shattered  strength  and  beauty  of  the  old  Pagan  art- 
life,  there  appeared  imexpectedly  signs  of  modern  dwelling. 
The  base  of  the  precii^itous  rock  for  some  distance  above  the 
road  was  concealed  by  a  steep  bank  of  earth,  the  crumbling  ruin 
and  dust  of  man  and  of  his  work.  At  the  top  of  this  bank  was 
one  of  those  squalid  erections,  so  common  in  Italy,  where,  upon 
a  massive  wall  of  old  brickwork,  embedded  in  the  soil,  a  roof  of 
straw  affords  some  kind  of  miserable  shelter.  Some  attempt 
had  been  made  to  wall  in  the  space  covered  by  this  roof,  and  a 
small  cross,  reared  from  the  gable,  and  a  bell  beneath  a  pent- 
house of  wood,  seemed  to  show  that  the  shed  had  been  used 
for  some  ecclesiastical  piu"pose.  At  the  bottom  of  the  slope 
upon  which  this  structiu-e  was  placed,  and  on  the  other  side  of 
the  ruined  arch  and  of  the  road,  there  stood,  near  to  the  tomb, 
a  very  small  hut,  also  thatched,  and  declared  to  be  a  tavern  by 
its  wine-bush.  At  the  door  of  this  hut,  as  Inglesant  and  the 
friar  rode  up,  stood  a  man  in  a  peasant's  dress,  in  an  attitude 
of  perplexity  and  nervous  dread.  A  long  streak  of  light  from 
the  western  sun  penetrated  the  ruined  arch,  and  shone  upon  the 
winding  road,  and,  against  the  blaze  of  light,  rock  and  arch 
and  hanging  woods  stood  out  dark  and  lowering  in  the  deli- 
cate air. 

The  dazzling  light,  the  close  atmosphere  of  the  valley,  and 
the  fumes  of  the  sulphurous  lake,  affected  Inglesant's  brain  so 
much  that  he  could  scarcely  see ;  but  they  did  not  appear  to 
disturb  the  friar.  He  addressed  the  man  as  they  came  up,  and 
understanding  more  from  his  own  instinct  than  from  the  few 
words  that  Inglesant  spoke  that  the  man  was  in  trouble,  he 
said, — 

"You  seem  in  some  perplexity,  my  son.  Confide  in  me, 
that  L  may  help  you." 


CHAP.  XXXVI.]  A  ROaiANCK  405 

As  the  man  hesitated  to  reply,  Inglesant  said,  "What  la 
that  building  on  the  hilH" 

"  It  is  a  house  for  lepers,"  said  the  peasant. 

"Are  you  the  master  of  this  tavern  ?"  said  Inglesant. 

"No,  Santa  Madre,"  replied  the  man.  "The  mistress  of 
the  inn  has  fled.  This  is  the  case,  Padre,"  he  continued,  turn- 
ing to  the  friar.  "  I  was  hired  a  week  or  so  ago  at  Ariano  to 
bring  a  diseased  man  here,  who  was  a  leper;  but  I  did  not 
know  that  he  was  a  leper  who  was  stricken  with  the  plague. 
I  brought  him  in  my  cart,  and  a  terrible  journey  I  had  with 
him.  When  I  had  brought  him  here,  and  the  plague  manifestly 
appeared  upon  him,  all  the  lepers  fled,  and  forsook  the  place. 
The  Padrona,  who  kept  this  tavern  upon  such  custom  as  the 
peasants  who  brought  food  to  sell  to  the  lepers  brought  her, 
also  fled.  I  stayed  a  day  or  two  to  help  the  wretched  man — 
they  told  me  that  he  was  a  gentleman — till  I  could  stay  no 
longer,  such  was  his  condition,  and  I  fled.  But,  my  Father,  I 
have  a  tender  heart,  and  I  came  back  to-day,  thiuking  that  the 
holy  Virgin  would  never  help  me  if  I  left  a  wretched  man  to 
die  alone — I,  who  only  know  where  and  in  what  state  he  is. 
I  spoke  to  one  or  two  friars  to  come  and  help  me,  but  they 
excused  themselves.  I  came  alone.  But  when  I  arrived  here 
my  courage  failed  me,  and  I  dared  not  go  up.  I  know  the 
state  he  was  in  two  days  ago ;  he  must  be  much  more  terrible 
to  look  at  now.  Signore,"  concluded  the  man,  turning  to 
Inglesant  with  an  imploring  gesture,  "  I  dare  not  go  up." 

"Do  you  know  this  man's  nauiel"  said  Inglesant. 

"  Yes  ;  they  told  me  his  name." 

"What  is  it r' 

**  II  Cavaliere  di  Guardino," 

At  the  name  of  his  wife's  brother,  Inglesant  started,  and 
would  have  dismounted,  but  checked  himself  in  the  stirrup, 
struck  by  the  action  of  the  friar.  He  had  thrown  his  arms 
above  his  head  with  a  gesture  of  violent  excitement,  his  sight- 
less eyeballs  extended,  his  face  lighted  witL  an  expression  of 
rapturous  astonishment  and  delight. 

"Who?"  he  exclaimed.  "Who  say  est  thou*?  Guardino 
a  leper,  and  stricken  with  the  plague  !  Deserted  and  helpless, 
is  he  1  too  terribly  disfigured  to  be  looked  upon  1  The  lepers 
flee  him,  sayest  thou  ?  Holy  and  blessed  Lord  J(;sus,  this  is 
Thy  work !     He  is  my  mortal  foe — the  ravisher  of  my  sister — 


406  JOHN  INGLESANT  ;  "  [chap.  XXXVI. 

the  destroyer  of  my  own  sight !     Let  me  go  to  him !     I  will 
minister  to  him — I  will  tend  him  !     Let  me  go  !" 

He  dismounted  from  his  mule,  and,  with  the  wonderful 
instinct  he  seemed  to  possess,  turned  towards  the  rock,  and 
began  to  scramble  up  the  hill,  blindly  and  with  difficulty,  it  is 
true,  but  still  with  sufficient  correctness  to  have  reached  the 
ruin  without  help.  There  was,  to  Inglesant,  something  inex- 
pressibly touching  and  pitiful  in  his  hurried  and  excited  action, 
and  his  struggling  determination  to  accomplish  the  ascent. 

The  peasant  would  have  overtaken  him  to  prevent  his  going 
up,  probably  misdoubting  his  intention.  Inglesant  checked 
him. 

"  Do  not  stop  him,"  he  said.  "  He  is  a  holy  man,  and  will 
do  what  he  says.  I  will  go  with  him.  Stay  here  with  my 
horse." 

"You  do  not  know  to  what  you  are  going,  signore,"  said 
the  peasant,  looking  at  Inglesant  with  a  shudder ;  "  let  him  go 
alone.     He  cannot  see." 

Inglesant  shook  his  head,  and,  his  brain  still  slightly  dizzy 
and  confused,  hastened  after  the  friar,  and  assisted  liim  to  climb 
the  rocky  bank.  When  they  had  reached  the  entrance  to  the 
hut  the  friar  went  hastily  in,  Inglesant  following  him  to  the 
doorway. 

It  was  a  miserable  place,  and  nearly  empty,  the  lepers  having 
carried  off  most  of  their  possessions  with  them.  On  a  bed  of 
straw  on  the  farther  side,  beneath  the  rock,  lay  what  Ingle- 
sant felt  to  be  the  man  of  whom  he  was  in  search.  What  he 
saw  it  is  impossible  to  describe  here.  The  leprosy  and  the 
plague  combined  had  produced  a  spectacle  of  inexpressible 
loathing  and  horror,  such  as  nothing  but  absolute  duty  would 
justify  the  description  of.  The  corruption  of  disease  made  it 
scarcely  possible  to  recognize  even  the  human  form.  The 
poisoned  air  of  the  shed  was  such  that  a  man  could  scarcely 
breathe  it  and  live. 

The  wretched  man  was  rolling  on  his  couch,  crying  out  at 
intervals,  groaning  and  uttering  oaths  aud  curses.  Without 
the  slightest  faltering  the  friar  crossed  the  room  (it  is  true  he 
could  not  see),  and  kneeling  by  the  bedside,  which  he  found  at 
once,  he  began,  in  low  and  hurried  accents,  to  pour  into  the  ear 
of  the  dying  man  the  consoling  soimd  of  that  ISTame,  which 
aloue,  uttered  under  heaven,  has  power  to  reach  the  departing 


CHAP.  XXXVI.]  A  ROMANCE.  407 

soul,  distracted  to  all  beside.  Startled  by  the  sound  of  a  voice 
close  to  his  ear,  for  his  sight  also  was  gone,  the  sick  man  ceased 
his  outcries  and  lay  still. 

Never  ceasing  for  a  moment,  the  friar  continued,  in  a  rapid 
and  fervent  whisper,  to  pour  into  his  ear  the  tenderness  of 
Jesus  to  the  vilest  sinner,  the  eternal  love  that  will  reign 
hereafter,  the  sweetness  and  peace  of  the  heavenly  life.  The 
wretched  man  lay  perfectly  still,  probably  not  knowing  whether 
this  wonderful  voice  was  of  earth  or  heaven ;  and  luglesant, 
his  senses  confused  by  the  horrors  of  the  room,  knelt  in  prayer 
in  the  entrance  of  the  hut. 

The  fatal  atmosphere  of  the  room  became  more  and  more 
dense.  The  voice  of  the  friar  died  slowly  away  ;  his  form, 
bending  lower  over  the  bed,  faded  out  of  sight :  and  there 
passed  across  Inglesant's  bewildered  brain  the  vision  of  Another 
who  stood  beside  the  dying  man.  The  halo  round  His  head 
lighted  all  the  hovel,  so  that  the  seamless  coat  He  wore,  and 
the  marks  upon  His  hands  and  feet,  were  plainly  seen,  and  the 
pale  alluring  face  was  turned  not  so  much  u\x)i\  the  bed  and 
upon  the  monk  as  upon  Inglesant  himself,  and  the  unspeakable 
glance  of  the  Divine  eyes  met  his. 

A  thrill  of  ecstasy,  terrible  to  the  weakened  system  as  the 
sharpest  pain,  together  with  the  fatal  miasma  of  the  place, 
made  a  final  rush  and  grasp  upon  his  already  reeling  faculties, 
and  he  lost  all  consciousness,  and  fell  senseless  within  the 
threshold  of  the  room. 

When  he  came  to  himself  he  had  been  dragged  out  of  the 
hut  by  the  peasant,  who  had  ventured  at  last  to  ascend  the  hilL 
The  place  was  silent  ;  the  Cavaliere  was  dead,  and  the  friar  lay 
across  the  body  in  a  sort  of  trance.  They  brought  him  out  and 
laid  him  on  the  grass,  thinking  for  some  time  that  he  was  dead 
also.  By  and  by  he  opened  his  sightless  eyes,  aud  asked  where 
he  was ;  but  he  still  moved  as  in  a  trance.  He  seemed  to  have 
forgotten  what  had  happened;  and,,  with  the  death  of  the 
Cavaliere,  the  great  motive  which  had  influenced  him,  and 
which,  while  it  lasted,  seemed  to  have  kept  his  reason  from 
utterly  losing  its  balance,  appeared  to  be  taken  away.  He  had 
lived  only  to  meet  and  bless  his  enemy,  and  this  having  been 
accomplished,  all  reason  for  living  was  gone. 

Inglesant  aud  the  peasant  dug  a  grave  with  some  imple- 
ments they  found  in  the  tavern,  and  hastily  buried  the  body, 


408  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap.  XXXTII. 

the  friar  pronouncing  a  benediction.  The  latter  performed  this 
office  mechanically,  and  seemed  almost  unconscious  as  to  what 
was  passing.  His  very  figure  and  shape  appeared  changed,  and 
presented  but  the  shadow  of  his  former  self;  his  speech  was 
broken  and  unintelligible.  Inglesant  gave  the  peasant  money, 
which  seemed  to  him  to  be  wealth,  and  they  mounted  and  rode 
silently  away. 

At  Venafro,  where  they  found  a  monastery  of  the  Cappuc- 
cini,  they  stayed  some  days,  Inglesant  expecting  that  his  com- 
panion would  recover  something  of  his  former  state  of  health. 
But  it  soon  became  apparent  that  this  would  not  be  the  ease ; 
the  friar  sank  rapidly  into  a  condition  of  mental  unconscious- 
ness, and  the  physicians  told  Inglesant  that  although  he  might 
linger  for  weeks,  they  believed  that  a  disease  of  the  brain  was 
hastening  him  towards  the  grave.  Inglesant  was  impatient  to 
return  to  the  Castello ;  and,  leaving  the  friar  to  the  care  of  the 
brothers  of  his  own  order,  he  resumed  his  journey. 

Was  it  a  strange  coincidence,  or  the  omniscient  rule  and 
will  of  God,  that,  at  the  moment  Inglesant  lay  insensible  before 
the  hut,  the  plague  had  done  its  work  in  the  home  that  he  had 
left '?  The  old  Count  died  first,  then  some  half  of  the  servants, 
finally,  in  the  deserted  house,  a  little  child  lay  dead  upon  its 
couch,  and  beside  it,  on  the  marble  floor,  lay  Lauretta — dead 
— un  cared  for. 

It  was  the  opinion  of  Martin  Luther  that  vision  ^of  the 
Saviour,  which  he  himself  had  seen,  were  delusions  of  Satan  for 
the  bewildering  of  the  Papists  ;  and  there  is  a  story  of  a  monk 
who  left  the  Beatific  Vision  that  he  might  take  his  service  in 
the  choir. 

Malvolti  died  at  Venafro  a  short  time  after  Inglesant  had 
left  him. 

CHAPTER  XXXVIL 

After  the  narration  of  the  events  just  detailed  the  papers  from 
which  the  life  of  Mr.  Inglesant  has  hitherto  been  compiled 
become  much  less  minute  and  personal  in  character ;  and  when 
the  narrative  is  resumed,  a  considerable  period  of  time  has  evi- 
dently elapsed.  It  is  stated  that  some  time  after  the  death  of 
his  wife  Mr.  Inglesant  returned  to  Rome,  and  assumed  a  novice's 


CHAP.  XXXVII.]  A.  ROIHANCK  409 

gown  in  some  religiDus  order,  but  to  which  of  the  religious 
bodies  he  attached  hini.self  is  doubtful.  It  might  be  thought 
that  he  would  naturally  become  a  member  of  the  Society  of 
Jesus ;  but  there  is  reason  to  conclude  that  the  rule  which  he 
intended  to  embrace  w^as  either  that  of  the  Benedictines  or 
the  Carmelites.  As  will  soon  appear,  he  proceeded  no  farther 
than  the  noviciate,  and  this  uncertainty  therefore  is  of  little 
cousequence. 

It  must  be  supposed  that  the  distress  caused  by  the  death 
of  his  wife  and  child,  and  by  his  absence  from  them  at  the  last, 
was  one  motive  which  caused  Inglesaut  to  seek  in  Rome  spiritual 
comfort  and  companionship  from  the  Spanish  priest  Molinos,  in 
whose  society  he  had  before  found  so  much  support  and  relief. 
It  w^as  thought,  indeed,  by  many  beside  Inglesant,  amid  the 
excitement  which  the  spread  of  the  method  of  devotion  taught 
by  this  man  had  caused,  that  a  dawn  of  purer  light  was  break- 
ing over  spiritual  Rome.  God  seemed  to  have  revealed  Himself 
to  thousands  in  such  a  fashion  as  to  make  their  past  lives  and 
worship  seem  profitless  and  unfruitful  before  the  brightness  and 
peace  that  was  revealed ;  and  the  lords  of  His  heritage  seemed 
for  a  time  to  be  willing  that  this  light  should  shine.  It  ap- 
peared for  a  moment  as  if  Christendom  were  about  to  throw  off 
its  shackles,  its  infant  swaddling  clothes,  in  which  it  had  been 
so  long  wrapped,  and,  acknowledging  that  the  childhood  of  the 
Church  was  past,  stand  forth  beftu-e  God  with  her  children 
around  her,  no  longer  distrusted  and  enslaved,  but  each  indi- 
vidually complete,  fellow -citizens  with  their  mother  of  the 
household  of  God.  Tlie  unsatisfactory  rotation  of  formal  peni- 
tence and  sinful  lapse,  of  wearisome  devotion  and  stale  pleasures, 
had  given  place  to  an  enthusiasm  which  believed  that,  instead 
of  ceremonies  and  bowing  in  outer  courts,  the  soul  was  intro- 
duced into  heavenly  places,  and  saw  God  face  to  face.  A 
wonderful  experience,  in  exchange  for  lifeless  formality  and  rule, 
of  communion  with  the  Lord,  with  nothing  before  the  believer, 
as  he  knelt  at  the  altar,  save  the  Lord  Himself,  day  by  day, 
unshackled  by  penance  and  confession  as  heretofore.  Thousands 
of  the  best  natures  in  Rome  attached  themselves  to  this  method ; 
it  was  approved  by  a  Jesuit  Father,  the  Pope  was  known  to 
countenance  it,  and  his  nephews  were  among  its  followers.  The 
bishops  were  mostly  in  favour  of  it,  and  in  the  nunneries  of 
Rome  the  directors  and  confessors  were  preaching  it ;  and  the 


410  JOHN  INGLES  ANT;  [cHAP.  XXXVIi. 

nuns,  instead  of  passing  their  time  over  their  beads  and 
"  Hours,"  were  much  alone,  engaged  in  the  exercise  of  mental 
prayer. 

It  would  indeed  be  difficult  to  estimate  the  change  that 
would  have  passed  over  Europe  if  this  one  rule  of  necessary 
confession  before  every  communion  had  been  relaxed ;  and  in 
the  hope  that  some  increased  freedom  of  religious  thought  would 
be  secured,  many  adopted  the  new  method  who  had  no  great 
attachment  to  the  doctrine,  nor  to  the  undoubted  extravagances 
which  the  Quietists,  in  common  with  other  mystics,  were  occa- 
sionally guilty  of,  both  in  word  and  deed.  It  cannot  be  denied, 
and  it  is  the  plea  that  will  be  urged  in  defence  of  the  action  of 
the  Jesuits,  that  freedom  of  thought  as  well  as  of  devotion  was 
the  motive  of  numbers  who  follow^ed  the  teaching  of  Molinos. 
That  free  speculation  and  individual  growth  could  be  combined 
with  loyalty  to  acts  and  ceremonies,  hallowed  by  centuries  of 
recollection  and  of  past  devotion,  was  a  prospect  sufficiently 
attractive  to  many  select  natures.  Some,  no  doubt,  entered 
into  this  cause  from  less  exalted  motives^a  love  of  fame,  and 
a  desire  to  form  a  party,  and  to  be  at  the  head  of  a  number  of 
followers  ;  but  even  among  those  whose  intentions  were  not  so 
lofty  and  spiritual  as  those  of  Molinos  probably  w^ere,  by  far 
the  greater  number  were  actuated  by  a  desire  to  promote  free- 
dom of  thought  and  of  worship  among  Churchmen. 

But  it  w^as  only  for  a  moment  that  this  bright  prospect 
opened  to  the  Church. 

The  Jesuits  and  Benedictines  began  to  be  alarmed.  Molinos 
had  endeavom-ed  to  allay  the  suspicion  attached  to  his  teaching, 
and  diminish  the  aversion  that  the  Jesuits  felt  towards  him, 
by  calling  his  book  "  The  Spiritual  Guide,"  and  by  constantly 
enjoining  the  necessity  of  being  in  all  things  under  the  direction 
of  a  religious  person ;  but  this  was  felt  to  point  more  at  the 
submission  ■  to  general  council  than  to  coming  always  to  the 
priest,  as  to  the  minister  of  the  sacrament  of  penance,  before 
every  communion ;  especially  as  Molinos  taught  that  the  only 
necessary  qualification  for  receiving  was  the  being  free  from 
mortal  sin. 

Suddenly,  when  the  reputation  of  this  new  society  appeared 
to  be  at  its  height,  Molinos  was  arrested,  and  Father  Esparsa, 
the  Jesuit  w^hose  apjjrobation  had  appeared  before  "The 
Spiritual  Guide,"  disappeared.     What  became  of  the  latter  waa 


CHAP.  XXXVII.]  A  ROMANCR  411 

not  known,  but  it  was  generally  supprysecl  that  he  was  "  shut 
up  between  four  walls ; "  and  at  any  rate  lie  appeared  no  more 
in  Rome.  In  the  midst  of  the  excitement  consequent  on  these 
events  seventy  more  persons,  all  of  the  highest  rank, — Count 
Vespiriani  and  his  lady,  the  Confessor  of  Prince  Borghese, 
Father  Appiani  of  the  Jesuits,  and  others  equally  well  known, 
— were  arrested  in  one  day,  and  before  the  month  was  over 
more  tban  two  hundred  persons  crowded  the  prisons  of  the 
Inquisition. 

Tlie  consternation  was  excessive,  when  a  method  of  devo- 
tion which  had  been  extolled  throughout  Italy  for  the  highest 
sanctity  to  which  mortals  could  aspii'e  was  suddenly  found  to 
be  heretical,  and  the  chief  promoters  of  it  hurried  from  their 
homes  and  from  their  friends,  shut  up  in  prison,  and  in  peril 
of  perpetual  confinement,  if  not  death.  The  arrest  of  Father 
Appiani  was  the  most  surprising.  He  was  accoimted  the  most 
learned  priest  in  the  Roman  College,  and  was  arrested  on  a 
Sunday  in  April  as  he  came  from  preaching.  .After  this  no 
one  could  guess  on  whom  the  blow  would  fall  next.  The  Pope 
himself,  it  was  reported,  had  been  examined  by  the  Jesuits. 
The  imminence  of  the  peril  brought  strength  with  it.  The 
prisoners,  it  was  whispered,  were  steady  and  resolute,  and 
showed  more  learning  than  their  examiners.  Their  friends 
who  were  still  at  large,  recovering  from  their  first  panic,  as- 
sumed a  bold  front.  Many  letters  were  written  to  the  Inquisi- 
tors, advising  them  to  consider  well  what  they  did  to  their 
prisoners,  and  assuring  them  that  their  interests  would  be 
maintained  even  at  the  cost  of  life.  Nor  did  these  protests 
end  here.  As  soon  as  possible  after  the  arrests  a  meeting  was 
held  at  Don  Agostino's  palace  in  the  Piazza  Colonna,  to  which 
ladies  were  summoned  as  well  as  men.  There,  in  a  magnificent 
saloon,  amid  gilding  and  painting  and  tapestry,  whose  splendom- 
was  subdued  by  softened  coloiu-  and  shaded  light,  were  met  the 
dlite  of  Rome.  There  were  ladies  in  rich  attire,  yet  in  whose 
countenances  was  seen  that  refinement  of  beauty  which  only 
religion  and  a  holy  life  can  give — ladies,  who,  while  appearing 
in  public  in  the  rank  which  belonged  to  them,  were  capable  in 
private  of  every  self-denial,  trained  in  the  practice  of  devotion 
and  acts  of  mere}'.  There  were  nuns  of  the  Conception  and 
of  the  Pa'estrina,  distressed  and  mortified  at  being  compelled 
to  return  to  their  beads  and  to  their  other  abandoned  formai 


412  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap,  xxxvii. 

There  were  present  Cereri,  Cardinal-Bishop  of  Como ;  Cardirals 
Carpegna  and  Cigolini,  and  Cardinal  Howard  of  England  (the 
noblest  and  most  spiritually  -  minded  of  the  Sacred  College), 
Absolini  and  Coloredi,  Cardinals  and  Fathers  of  the  Oratory, 
and  Cardinal  D'Estrdes.  Petrucci  himself,  the  most  prominent 
advocate  of  the  Qiiietist  doctrine,  was  in  the  room,  though  in- 
cognito, it  not  being  generally  known  that  he  was  in  Rome. 
There  were  present  many  Fathers  of  the  Oratory,  men  of 
intellect,  refinement,  and  blameless  lives ;  Don  Livio,  Duke  di 
Ceri,  the  Pope's  nephew,  was  there,  and  the  Prince  Savelli, 
many  of  the  highest  nobility,  and  above  a  hundred  gentlemen, 
all  of  whom,  by  their  presence,  might  be  supposed  to  prove 
their  attachment  to  the  teaching  of  Molinos,  their  superiority 
to  the  sordid  motives  of  worldly  prudence  and  pleasiu-e,  and 
their  devotion  to  spiritual  instincts  and  desires.  It  would  be 
difficult  to  imagine  scenes  more  unlike  each  other ;  yet,  strange 
as  it  may  appear,  it  was  nevertheless  true  that  this  brilliant 
company,  attired  in  the  height  of  the  existing  mode,  sparkling 
with  jewels  and  enriched  with  chastened  colour,  might  not 
unfitly  be  considered  the  successor  of  those  hidden  meetings  of 
a  few  slaves  in  Nero's  household,  who  first,  in  that  wonderful 
city,  believed  in  the  crucified  Nazarene. 

The  addresses  were  commenced  by  the  Duke  di  Ceri,  who 
spoke  of  the  grief  caused  by  the  arrest  of  their  friends,  and  of 
the  exertions  that  had  been  made  on  their  behalf.  He  was . 
followed  by  other  of  the  great  nobles  and  cardinals,  who  all 
spoke  in  the  same  strain.  All  these  speeches  were  delivered 
in  somewhat  vague  and  guarded  terms,  and  as  one  after  another 
of  the  speakers  safc  down,  a  sense  of  incompleteness  and  dis- 
satisfaction seemed  ^to  steal  over  the  assembly,  as  though  it 
were  disappointed  of  something  it  most  longed  to  hear.  The 
meeting  was  assured,  over  and  over  again,  that  extreme 
measures  would  not  be  taken  against  those  in  prison ;  that 
their  high  rank  and  powerful  connections  would  save  them ; 
the  Duke  di  Ceri  had  expressly  said  that  he  believed  liia 
relation  and  servant.  Count  Vespiriani,  and  his  lady,  would 
soon  be  released.  The  fact  was,  though  the  Duke  did  not 
choose  to  state  it  publicly,  that  they  had  been  proscribed  solely 
from  inf)rmation  gained  at  the  confessional;  and  this  having 
been  much  talked  of,  the  Jesuits  had  resolved,  rather  than 
bring  any  further  odium  on  the  sacrament  of  confession,  to 


CHAP.  XXXVII.]  A  ROMANCE.  413 

discharge  both  the  lady  and  her  husband  at  once  But,  though 
all  this  might  be  true,  there  was  something  that  remained 
unsaid — something  that  was  filling  all  hearts. 

What  was  to  be  the  spiritual  futiu'e  of  those  assembled  1 
Was  this  gate  of  Paradise  and  the  Divine  life  to  be  for  ever 
closed,  and  was  earth  and  all  its  littleness  once  more  to  be 
pressed  upon  them  without  denial,  and  hypocrisy  and  the  petty 
details  of  a  formal  service  once  more  to  be  the  only  spiritual 
food  of  their  souls  ?  Must  they,  if  they  resolved  to  escape  this 
spiritual  death,  quit  this  land  and  this  glorious  Church,  and 
seek,  in  cold  and  distant  lands,  and  alien  Churches,  the  Ireedom 
denied  by  the  tyranny  of  the  leaders  of  their  own?  These 
thoughts  filled  all  minds,  and  yet  none  had  given  them  utter- 
ance, nor  was  it  surprising  that  it  should  be  so.  Select  and 
splendid  as  that  assembly  was,  no  one  knew  for  certain  that  his 
neighbour  was  not  a  spy.  As  was  known  soon  after,  Cardinal 
D'Estrdes,  who  sat  there  so  calm  and  lofty-looking,  furnished 
the  principal  evidence  against  Molinos,  swearing  that,  being  his 
intimate  friend,  he  knew  that  the  real  meaning  of  his  friend's 
printed  words  was  that  heretical  one  of  which,  in  fact,  Molinos 
had  never  dreamt.  It  was  no  wonder  that  the  speeches  were 
cautious  and  vague. 

At  last  Don  Agostino  rose,  and  in  a  quiet  and  unaffected 
tone  requested  a  hearing  for  his  very  dear  friend,  the  Cavaliere 
di  San  Giorgio,  one  well  known  to  most  of  them,  whose  char- 
acter was  known  to  all. 

A  mm'uuir  of  satisfaction  ran  through  the  room,  and  the 
audience  settled  itself  down  to  listen,  as  though  they  knew  that 
the  real  business  of  the  day  was  about  to  begin.  Inglesant  rose 
in  his  seat  immediately  behind  his  host.  He  was  evidently- 
dressed  carefully,  with  a  view  to  the. effect  to  be  produced  upon 
a  fastidious  and  idtra-refined  assembly.  He  wore  a  cassock  of 
silk,  and  the  gown  of  a  Benedictine  made  of  the  finest  cloth. 
His  head  was  tonsured  and  his  hair  cut  short.  He  had  round 
his  neck  a  band  of  fine  cambric,  and  at  his  wrists  ruffles  of  rich 
lace ;  and  he  wore  on  his  hand  a  diamond  of  great  value.  He 
had,  mdeed,  to  one  who  saw  bis  dress  and  not  his  face,  entirely 
the  look  of  a  petit-maitre,  and  even — what  is  more  contemptible 
still — of  a  petit-maitre  priest ;  yet,  aa  he  rose  in  his  seat,  there 
was  not  a  man  in  all  that  assembly  who  would  have  eiven  a 
-ilver  scudo  for  the  chances  of  his  life 


414  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [CHAP.  XXXVII. 

His  romantiij  and  melancholy  story,  the  death  of  his  wife 
and  child,  his  assumption  of  the  religious  life,  and  above  all,  his 
friendship  with  Molinos,  were  known  to  all ;  it  seemed  to  many 
a  fitting  close  to  a  life  of  such  vicissitude,  that  at  this  crisis  he 
should  sacrifice  himself  in  the  spiritual  cause  that  was  dear  to 
alL 

He  had  his  speech  written  before  him,  every  word  carefully 
consideied  and  arranged  by  himself  and  some  of  the  first  masters 
of  style  then  in  Rome.  He  began  deliberately  and  distinctly, 
so  that  every  word  was  heard,  though  he  spoke  in  a  low  voice. 

After  deprecating  the  judgment  of  the  assembly  upon  the 
artless  and  unpolished  words  he  was  about  to  address  to  it,  and 
excusing  his  rashness  in  consenting  to  speak  in  such  an  assembly 
at  all,  he  said, — 

"  The  words  of  the  noble  and  august  personages  who  have 
already  spoken  have  left  me  little  to  say.  Nothing  is  necessary 
to  be  added  to  their  wise  and  reverend  advice.  All  that  remains 
for  us  to  do  is  to  attempt  to  carry  out  in  action  what  they  have 
so  well  counselled.  Our  first  object,  our  first  duty,  is  the  safety 
of  our  friends.  But,  when  this  is  happily  accomplished — as, 
under  such  leaders  and  protected  by  such  names,  how  can  we 
doubt  that  it  will  be  1 — there  are  many  among  us  who,  with 
sinking  hearts  and  hushed  voices,  are  inquiring,  'What  will 
come  next  V  " 

He  paused,  and  looked  up  for  a  moment,  and  a  miurmur  of 
encouragement  ran  through  the  room. 

"  I  am  not  mistaken  when  I  say  that  in  this  room,  and  also 
in  Rome,  are  many  hearts  which,  within  the  last  few  years,  and 
by  the  teaching  of  him  for  whom  night  and  day  the  prayers  of 
the  Church  ascend  to  heaven,  have  foimd  a  peace  and  a  blessed- 
ness before  unknown;  many  who  have  breathed  celestial  air, 
and  walked  the  streets  of  God.  Nor  am  I  mistaken — my  heart 
and  yoiu:  presence  tell  me  I  am  not  mistaken — when  I  say  that 
many  are  asking  themselves,  'How  can  they  renounce  this 
heavenly  birthright  1  How  can  they  live  without  this  Divine 
intercourse  which  they  have  found  so  sweet — which  the  piu-est 
saints  have  hallowed  with  their  approval  1  How  can  they  live 
without  God  who  have  seen  Him  fiice  to  face  V  And  many  are 
asking  themselves,  '  Must  we  leave  the  walks  of  men,  and  the 
Churches  where  the  saints  repose,  and  wander  into  the  wilder- 

3-  ~int3  byways  among  the  wild  places  of  heresy,  since  the 


CHAP.  XXXVII.]  A  ROMANCE.  416 

Church  seems  to  close  the  gates  upon  this  way  which  is  their 
life  V  I  risk  the  deserved  censure  of  this  august  assembly  when 
I  venture  to  advise — yet  even  this  I  am  willing  to  do,  if  I  may 
serve  any — and  I  venture  to  advise,  No.  I  myself  was  born 
in  another  country,  amid  contending  forms  of  faith.  I  believe 
that,  in  the  sacrificial  worship  of  our  most  Holy  Chiu-ch,  room 
is  amply  given  for  the  perfection  of  the  Contemplative  State ; 
and  that  such  lofty  devotion  can  find  no  fitter  scene  than  the 
altar  of  the  Lord.  As  we  may  hope  that,  at  some  future  time, 
the  whole  Church  may  come  to  this  holy  state,  and  be  raised 
above  many  things  which,  though  now  perhaps  necessary,  may 
in  a  higher  condition  fall  away ;  so,  if  by  our  continuing  in  this 
posture  we  may  hasten  such  a  happy  time,  this  doubtless  wiU 
be  the  path  Heaven  wishes  us  to  walk  in.  But " — he  paused, 
and  the  whole  assembly  listened  with  breathless  attention — "if 
such  is  to  be  our  com'se,  it  is  evident  that  an  understanding  is 
necessary  of  adjustment  between  ourselves  and  the  Fathers  of 
the  Holy  Office  and  of  the  Society  of  Jesus — an  adjustment  by 
which  a  silence  must  be  allowed  our  Faith — a  silence  which,  for 
the  sake  of  those  amongst  us  whose  consciences  are  the  most 
refined  and  heaven-taught,  must  be  understood  to  imply  dissent 
to  much  that  has  lately  been  acted  and  taught.  We  must 
understand  that  this  exertion  of  authority  is  aimed  only  at  the 
open  teaching  of  doctrines  in  which  we  still  believe,  and  which 
are  still  dear  to  us  ;  and  that  liberty  is  allowed  our  faitli  so  long 
as  we  observe  a  discreet  silence — a  liberty  which  shall  extend 
as  far  as  to  admission  to  the  Sacrament  without  previous  con- 
fession. On  this  point  •  surely  it  is  necessary  that  we  have  a 
clearer  understanding." 

Inglesant  stopped,  and  applause,  sufficiently  loud  and  unmis- 
takably sincere,  showed  that  a  large  proportion  of  the  assembly 
approved  of  what  had  been  said. 

He  spoke  a  word  to  Don  Agostin©,  and  then  went  on, — 
"  I  am  willing  to  confess,  and  this  august  assembly  will  be 
willing  to  confess,  that  to  the  rulers  of  Christ's  ark — those  who 
have  to  answer  for  the  guidance  of  the  peoples  of  the  world, 
and  who  know  far  better  than  we  can  the  difficulties  and 
dangers  which  environ  such  a  task — this  allowance  to  the 
lower  masses  of  the  people,  so  prone  to  run  to  extremes  and 
to  err  in  excess,  would  seem  unwise ;  and  I  am  not  unwilling 
also  to  admit  that  we  may  have  erred  in  making  this  way  too 


416  JOHN  inglesant;  [chap,  xxxvii. 

public,  before  the  world  was  sufEcientlj'  prepared  for  it.  Both 
for  this,  and  for  any  other  fai.lt,  we  are  willing  to  suffer  penance, 
and  to  submit  to  the  Holy  Church  in  silence ;  but,  this  acknow- 
ledged and  performed,  we  must  be  allowed,  within  certain  limits, 
to  retain  tlie  freedom  we  have  enjoyed,  and  some  manifest 
token  must  be  given  us  that  such  will  be  the  case." 

A  singular  murmur  again  filled  the  room — a  murmur  com- 
pounded of  intense  sympathy  and  of  admiration  at  the  boldness 
of  the  speaker. 

Inglesant  went  on. 

"  But  you  will  ask  me,  how  is  this  to  be  obtained  ?  I  am. 
allowed  to  say  that  I  have  iTot  undertaken  the  mission  save  at 
the  request  of  others  whom  it  well  becomes  to  direct  my  service 
in  all  things.  They  consider  that  for  some  reason  I  am  fitted 
for  the  task.  I  am — and  I  speak  with  all  gratitude — a  pupil 
of  the  reverend  and  holy  Society  of  Jesus,  and  whatever  I 
possess  I  owe  to  its  nursing  care.  I  am  besides,  though  I  have 
never  acted  in  such  capacity,  still  an  accredited  agent  of  the 
Queen  Mother  of  England,  that  most  faithful  daughter — I  had 
almost  said  Martyr — of  the  Church.  I  will  see  the  General  of 
the  Order,  and  if  this  assembly  will  allow  me  to  speak  in  its 
name,  I  will  offer  to  him  our  dutiful  submission  if  he,  on  his 
part,  will  give  us  some  public  sign  that  we  are  allowed  our 
private  interpretation  upon  the  late  events,  and  our  liberty  upon 
the  point  which  I  have  named." 

When  Inglesant  sat  down  Cardinal  Howard  spoke.  He  was 
followed  by  several  others,  all  of  whom  complimented  the 
Cavaliere  upon  his  devotion  to  so  good  a  cause,  but  abstained 
from  expressing  any  decided  opinion  on  the  expediency  of  his 
proposal.  But  when  two  or  three  speeches  had  been  made, 
the  mixed  character  of  the  assembly  began  to  show  itself.  It 
is  true  that  it  had  been  carefully  selected,  yet,  in  order  to 
give  it  importance  and  influence,  it  had  been  necessary  to  in- 
clude in  the  invitations  as  many  as  possible,  and  the  result  was 
soon  apparent.  There  were  many  present  who  had  joined  the 
ranks  of  the  Quietists  more  from  a  weariness  of  the  existing 
order  than  from  sincere  devotion.  There  were  mr.ny  present 
who  had  joined  them  sincerely,  but  who,  from  timidity  and 
caution,  were  desirous  to  escape  the  anger  of  the  Inquisition  by 
submission  and  silence,  and  who  deprecated  any  risk  of  exciting 
a  still  more  harsh  exertion  of  authority.     Both  these  parties, 


CHAP.  XXXVII.]  A  ROMANCE.  417 

increased  by  waverers  from  the  more  devoted  portion  of  the 
company,  united  in  advising  that  no  action  sliould  be  taken, 
farther  than  that  which  had  been  already  used,  and  wliich,  it 
might  be  hoped,  had  secured  the  principal  object  of  their  wishes, 
the  release  of  tlieir  friends. 

They  argued  that  confession  before  each  communion  could 
not  be  burdensome  to  those  who  were  in  a  state  of  grace,  and 
therefore  had  nothing  to  confess ;  and  even  if  it  were,  as  the 
Fathers  of  the  Church  judged  it  necessary  for  the  suppression  of 
error,  and  for  the  good  of  the  ignorant  and  unenlightened,  it  ought 
to  be  submitted  to  most  willingly  by  those  farthest  advanced  in 
the  spiritual  life.  These  speakers  also  argued  that  many  things 
which  were  held  by  the  Quietists  harmlessly  to  themselves  were 
liable  to  be  misunderstood,  and  that  anything  w^hich  tended  to 
draw  off  the  mind  from  the  mystery  of  the  Sacrifice  of  the 
Mass,  or  from  the  examples  of  the  saints,  tended  to  divert  the 
vulgar  from  devotion  to  the  Saviour,  and  savoured  of  Deism. 

They  argued  that  although  perhaps  many  things  were 
unnecessary  to  those  whose  religious  life  was  far  advanced,  such 
as  the  breviary,  beads,  images,  many  prayers,  etc.,  yet  it  was 
not  so  to  others,  and  that  no  doubt,  where  it  Avas  suitable, 
relaxation  would  be  easil}^  obtained  from  one's  director.  No 
one  had  insisted  more  upon  the  necessity  of  a  spiritual  guide 
than  had  Molinos,  and  it  was  now  the  time  to  prove  the  reality 
of  our  obedience  to  the  voice  of  the  Church. 

It  was  argued  that  many  things  in  Molinos's  writings  seemed 
to  tend  towards  Calvinism,  and  the  doctrine  of  Efficacious 
Grace,  which  no  one  present — no  true  child  of  the  Church — ■ 
could  defend, — a  doctrine  which  limited  the  Grace  of  God,  and 
turned  the  free  and  wide  pastures  of  Catholicism  into  the  narrow 
bounds  of  a  restricted  sect ;  and  it  was  finally  hinted  that  there 
was  some  reason  to  believe  that  the  promoters  of  the  meeting 
were  acting  with  a  farther  intention  than  at  first  appeared,  and 
that  they  desired  to  introduce  changes  into  the  Catholic  faith 
and  discipline,  under  cover  of  this  discussion. 

This  last  insinuation  was  a  home  thrust,  and  was  so  felt  by 
the  meeting.  The  subject  of  Efficacious  Grace  had  also  been 
introduced  very  skilfully  by  a  young  priest,  a  pupil  of  the 
Jesuits  himself. 

After  a  brief  consultation  with  his  party  Inglesant  replied 
tJbat  a  great  deal  of  what  had  been  advanced  was  unanswer- 

2e 


418  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [chap.  xxxTii. 

able  ;  that  he  himself,  a  pupil  of  the  Jesuits,  was  as  much 
opposed  to  the  dcctrine  of  Efficacious  Grace  as  any  one  could 
be ;  that  it  was  the  intention  of  no  one  present  to  urge  any 
course  of  action  unless  the  meeting  unanimously  approved  of  it ; 
and  that,  as  it  appeared  that  the  majority  of  those  present  were 
prepared  to  submit  to  the  Holy  Office,  and  did  not  desire  any 
negotiation,  nothing  farther  would  be  attempted. 

There  weighed,  in  truth,  upon  the  hearts  of  all,  and  had 
probably  oppressed  Inglesant  as  he  spoke,  a  sense  of  hopeless- 
ness and  of  contention  with  an  irresistible  power.  In  spite  of 
this  feeling,  however,  the  decision  of  the  chiefs  drew  forth 
expressions  of  impatience  and  regret  from  the  more  enthusiastic 
partizans  ;  but  as  these  were  mostly  women,  who  could  not 
address  the  assembly,  or  such  as  were  not  prepared  to  make 
themselves  prominent  in  face  of  almost  certain  arrest,  the  dis- 
cussion became  desultory  and  ineffectual,  and  the  meeting  finally 
broke  up  without  any  decision  having  been  arrived  at. 

The  Piazza  was  full  of  carriages  and  servants,  and  the  Duke 
di  Ceri  had  an  enormous  train  of  equi})ages  following  his 
carriage  to  escort  him  beyond  the  gate,  on  the  way  to  his  villa 
near  Civita  Vecchia,  whither  he  returned  immediately,  not 
choosing  to  stay  in  Rome. 

The  meeting  being  over,  Don  Agostino  urged  Inglesant  to 
leave  Rome  ;  indeed,  the  Duke  had  already  pressed  him  to 
accompany  him  to  Civita  Vecchia,  but  Inglesant  declined. 

The  motives  which  influenced  him  were  of  a  mixed  nature. 
He  was  prompted  by  the  most  sincere  desire  to  find  out  a  way 
both  for  himself  and  for  others,  in  which  the  highest  spiritual 
walk,  and  the  purest  condition  of  spiritual  worship,  might  be 
possible  within  the  Church  of  Rome.  There  was  probably 
nothing  in  this  world  which  he  desired  more  than  this,  for  in 
this  was  included  that  still  more  important  freedom,  the  liberty 
of  the  reason  ;  for  if  it  were  possible  for  the  spirit  to  be  free, 
while  fulfilling  the  outward  observances,  and  participating  in 
the  outward  ordinances  of  the  Church,  so  also  it  must  be  pos- 
sible for  the  reason  to  be  free  too. 

It  had  been  this  very  desire,  singular  as  it  may  seem,  which 
had  attached  him  to  the  Society  of  the  Jesuits.  Not  only  were 
their  tenets — notably  that  of  sufficient  grace  given  to  all  men 
— of  wider  and  more  catholic  nature  than  the  Augustinian 
doctrines  held  by  most  bodies  both  of  Churchmen  and  Protes- 


CHAP.  XXXVII.]  A  ROMANCE.  419 

tcants,  but  the  Society  had  always,  in  all  its  dealings  with  men, 
shown  a  notable  leaning  to  tolerance,  even,  so  its  enemies 
asserted,  of  sin  and  vice. 

But  besides  these  motives  which  had  something  of  a  re- 
fined and  noble  character,  Inglesant  had  others.  A  life  of 
intrigue  and  policy  had,  from  training  and  severe  practice, 
become  a  passion  and  necessity  of  liis  life.  To  leave  tlie  field 
where  such  a  fight  was  going  on,  to  renudn  in  Eome,  even,  an 
•inactive  spectator,  allowed  to  pursue  his  own  path  merely  from 
the  ignoble  fact  that  he  was  not  worth  arrest — both  these 
courses  of  action  were  intolerable  to  him.»  He  had  promised 
MoHnos  that  he  would  not  be  wanting  in  the  hour  of  trial,  and 
he  would  keep  his  word.  He  was  utterly  powerless,  as  the 
events  of  the  last  few  moments  would  have  shown  him  had  he 
not  known  it  before.  The  most  powerful,  the  noblest  confeder- 
acy fell  away  impotently  before  an  invisible  yet  well-understood 
power,  and  a  sense  of  vague  iriesistible  force  oppressed  him, 
and  showed  him  the  uselessness  of  resistance. 

Nevertheless  he  requested  the  loan  of  Don  Agostino's 
carriage  that  he  might  go  at  once  to  the  General  of  the  Society. 
He  was  shown  at  once  into  a  small  cabinet,  where  he  was  kept 
waiting  a  few  moments,  the  General  in  fact  being  engaged  at 
that  moment  in  listening  to  a  detailed  account  of  the  meeting, 
and  of  the  speeches  delivered  at  it.  He  however  entered  the 
room  in  a  few  minutes,  and  the  two  men  saluted  each  other 
with  the  appearance  of  cordial  friendship.  Inglesant  had  not 
changed  his  dress,  and  the  General  ran  his  eyes  over  it  with 
somewhat  of  an  amused  expression,  doubtless  comparing  the 
account  he  had  just  received  with  the  appearance  of  his  visitor, 
the  purpose  of  which  he  was  fully  alive  to. 

Inglesant  began  the  conversation. 

"  Your  reverence  is  probably  acquainted  already  with  the 
meeting  in  the  Piazza  Colonna,  and  with  its  objects  and  results. 
I,  however,  have  come  to  relate  what  passed  as  far  as  you  may 
be  disposed  to  listen,  and  to  give  any  information,  in  a  perfectly 
open  and  sincere  manner,  which  you  may  wish  to  receive.  In 
return  for  this  I  wish  to  ask  your  reverence  two  or  three 
questions  which  I  hope  will  not  be  unpleasant,  and  which  you 
will  of  course  answ^er  or  not  as  it  pleases  you." 

"  As  1  understand  the  meeting,  Signore  Cavaliere,"  said  the 
General  with  a  slight  smile,  "it  rejected  your  mediation,  in 


420  JOHN  INGLESANT  ;  [cHAP.  XXXVIL 

spite  of  the  elaborate  care  with  which  tlie  proposal  was  brought 
before  it,  a  care  extending  to  the  minutest  particulars,  and  the 
chastened  eloquence  and  perfect  style  in  wliicli  it  was  offered.'' 

This  sarcasm  fell  comparatively  harmlessly  upon  Inglesant, 
preoccupied  as  his  thoughts  were.    He  therefo/e  bowed,  saying,^ — 

"  The  meeting  rejected  my  mediation,  or  rather  it  thought 
that  no  mediation  was  necessary,  and  trusted  itself  implicitly  to 
the  fatlierly  care  of  the  Society  of  Jesus." 

"What  does  the  meeting  representing  this  new  heresy 
demand?" 

"  It  demands  nothing  but  the  deliverance  of  its  friends  now 
in  prison." 

"  And  nothing  else  1" 

"Nothing  else  from  the  meeting.  I  am  here  to  demand 
something  else." 

"  On  your  own  behalf  alone  V 

"On  my  own  i^sponsibility  solely;  but  if  my  request  is 
granted,  many  will  be  benefited  by  my  work." 

"  Have  you  no  abettors  1  You  came  here  in  Don  Agostino's 
coach." 

"  I  am  Don  Agostino's  dear  and  intimate  friend,  and  it  is 
not  much  that  he  should  lend  me  his  coach.  I  have  many 
frieuds  in  Rome." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  the  Jesuit  cordially,  "  and  among  them 
the  Order  of  Jesus  is  not  the  least  sincere." 

Inglesant  bowed,  and  there  was  a  slight  pause.  Then  the 
General  said, — 

"  What  do  you  demand  ■?" 

"  I  demand  spiritual  freedom — the  freedom  of  silence." 

"Freedom  will  be  abused." 

"  Not  by  me  nor  by  my  friends.  We  pledge  ourselves  to 
unbroken  silence.  AU  we  demand  is  freedom  to  worship  God 
in  private  as  He  Himself  shall  lead  us.  We  ask  for  no  change 
in  public  doctrine.  We  seek  no  proselytes.  In  fact,  we  confine 
ourselves  to  one  desire,  the  sacrament  without  confession." 

The  Jesuit  made  no  reply,  but  continued  to  look  fixedly 
into  Inglesant's  face. 

"It  seems  to  me.  Father,"  Inglesant  went  on,  with  a  touch 
of  bitterness  in  his  tone,  "  that  the  Society  is  clianging  its  policy, 
or  rather  that  it  has  a  different  policy  for  different  classes  of 
men.     So  far  as  I  have  known  it,  it  has  pursued  a  course  of 


CHAP.  XXXVII.]  A  ROMANCK  421  \ 

compromise  with  all  men,  and  especially  with  the  weak  and  frail 
It  has  always  appeared  to  me  a  trait  much  to  be  admired,  that 
in  which  it  is  likest  to  the  divine  charity  itself ;  but  the  world" 
has  been  very  severe  upon  it.  And  when  the  world  says,  *  You 
have  pandered  to  vice  in  every  form;  you  have  rendered  the 
confessional  easy  of  approach,  and  the  path  of  penitence  smooth 
to  the  impenitent ;  you  have  been  lenient,  nay  more  than  lenient, 
to  the  loose  liver,  to  the  adulterers  and  menslayers, — surely  you 
might  be  mild  to  the  devout ;  surely  you  might  extend  a  little 
of  this  infinite  pity  to  the  submissive  and  obedient,  to  the  pure 
in  life  and  soul  who  seek  after  God ;  '  Difficile  est  satiram  non 
scribere.  Nam  quis  iniquae  tam  patiens  lu-bis,  tarn  ferreus,  ut 
teneat  se?"  If  the  world  says  this,  what  am  I  to  answer'?  For, 
if  it  be  so  necessary  to  confine  the  soid  to  narrow  dogmas  lest 
she  go  astray,  it  must  be  also  necessary  to  deal  freely  and 
sharply  with  these  sins  of  the  flesh,  lest  they  bring  men  to  sen- 
suality and  to  heU,  By  thus  acting,  as  it  seems  to  me,  and  not 
by  making  the  righteous  sad,  you  would  follow  the  teaching  of 
those  beautifid  words  of  one  of  your  Fathers,  who  says,  '  that 
the  main  design  of  our  Society  is  to  endeavoiu-  the  establishment 
of  virtue,  to  carry  on  the  war  against  vice,  and  to  cultivate  an 
infinite  number  of  souls.'"       r 

"You  are  a  bold  man,  Signore  Cavaliere.  For  far  less 
words  than  you  have  spoken  men  have  grown  old  in  the 
dungeons  of  Saint  Angelo,  where  the  light  of  day  never  comes." 

luglesant,  who  rather  wished  to  be  imprisoned,  and  flattered 
himself  that  he  should  soon  be  released,  was  not  alarmed  at  this 
menace,  and  remained  silent. 

A  pause  ensued,  during  which  something  like  this  ran 
through  the  Jesuit's  mind  : — 

"Shall  I  have  this  man  arrested  at  once,  or  wait?  He 
came  to  us  well  recommended — the  favourite  pupil  of  an  im- 
portant member  of  the  Society,  who  assured  us  that  he  was  an 
instrument  perfectly  trained,  ready  at  all  points  for  use,  and  of 
a  temper  and  spirit  far  above  the  average,  not  to  be  lost  to  the 
Order  on  any  account.  He  has  proved  all  that  was  said  of  him, 
and  much  more.  The  Papal  throne  itself  is  under  obligation  to 
him.  But  do  we  want  such  a  man  so  much  ?  I  have  scores 
of  agents,  of  instruments  ready  to  my  hand,  with  whom  I  need 
use  no  caution — no  finesse ;  why  waste  any  on  one,  however 
highly  finished  and  trained  ?    But.  on  the  other  hand,  I  speak 


422  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap,  xxxviii. 

this  in  Itome,  wheie  everything  is  our  own,  and  where  the  sense 
of  power  may  have  unfitted  me  from  properly  understanding 
this  man's  value.  In  the  rough  regions  in  partihus,  such  a  tool 
as  this,  fine  and  true  as  steel,  tried  in  the  fke  as  steel,  doubtless 
is  not  lightly  to  be  thrown  away ;  at  all  events,  nothing  is  to 
he  done  hastily.  So  long  as  he  is  in  Kome  he  is  safe,  and  may 
be  clapped  up  at  any  moment.  I  almost  wish  he  would  leave, 
and  go  back  to  his  teacher." 

All  this  occupied  but  a  few  seconds,  and,  as  the  Jesuit  made 
no  answer,  Inglesant,  who  scarcely  expected  any  definite  reply, 
took  his  leave.  To  his  surprise,  however,  the  General  insisted 
on  accompanying  him  to  his  coach.  They  crossed  the  courtyard 
to  where  the  equipage  of  Don  Agostiuo  stood  in  the  street.  In 
the  excited  imagination  of  Rome  at  that  moment,  the  sight  of 
Don  Agostino's  carriage  before  the  Jesuits'  College  had  attracted 
a  crowd.  When  Inglesant  appeared,  accompanied  by  the  General, 
the  excitement  became  intense.  As  they  reached  the  carriage 
door,  Inglesant  knelt  upon  the  pavement,  and  requested  the 
Jesuit's  blessing ;  the  foremost  of  the  crowd,  impressed  by  this 
action,  knelt  too.  Inglesant  rose,  entered  the  carriage,  and  was 
driven  off;  and  two  different  rumom-s  spread  through  Rome — 
one,  that  the  Society  had  come  to  terms  with  the  Quietists 
through  the  mediation  of  the  Cavaliere;  the  other,  that  the 
Cavaliere  di  San  Giorgio  had  betrayed  the  Quietists,  and  made 
his  peace  with  the  Order;  and  this  last  report  received  the 
greatest  amount  of  credit. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

The  Inquisitors  and  the  Jesuits  continued  to  adopt  a  policy  of 
great  leniency  to  those  who  were  in  prison.  The  majority,  after 
one  examination,  were  released,  merely  going  through  the  form 
of  abjuring  heresies  and  errors  of  which  they  had  never  dreamed. 
Owing  to  this  politic  com'se  of  action,  assisted  by  the  dislike 
and  contempt  which  the  people  felt  towards  the  then  Pope, 
who  was  supposed  to  be  a  favourer  of  Molinos,  and  of  whose 
didl  reign  the  Romans  were  weary,  a  great  change  took  place 
m  the  opinions  of  the  populace.  The  credit  of  the  Jesuits  rose 
exceedingly,   and   they  became  celebrated  lor   their  excessive 


CHAP.  XXXVIII.]  A  ROMANCR  423 

mildness,  who  before  had  been  blamed  for  their  rigour.  To 
such  an  extent  did  they  gain  in  popular  estimation,  that  the 
chiefs  of  the  defeated  party  were  unable  to  keep  back  great 
numbers  of  the  followers  of  Molinos  from  coming  in  to  the 
Inquisitors  every  day,  to  accuse  themselves  of  heresy,  and  to 
offer  themselves  to  penance.  These  being  very  gently  treated, 
and  dismissed  in  peace,  testified  everywhere  to  the  clemency  of 
the  Holy  Office  and  of  the  Jesuits.  The  excitement,  which 
before  had  set  in  one  direction,  was  now  turned  with  equal 
impetuosity  in  another ;  and  many  who  had  before,  doubtless 
in'  perfect  sincerity,  found — or  fancied  they  found — spiritual 
satisfaction  in  the  "  method  of  contemplation,"  now  discovered 
an  equal  benefit  in  an  excessive  orthodoxy.  The  Quietist 
party  was  utterly  crushed,  and  put  to  ignominious  silence ;  and 
Molinos  himself  became  an  object  of  hatred  and  contempt; 
while,  all  the  time,  with  extraordinary  inconsistency,  it  was 
publicly  reported  that  the  reason  of  this  surprising  clemency 
was  the  great  support  which  his  doctrine  received  from  the 
mystical  Divinity,  which  had  been  authorized  by  so  many 
canonizations,  and  approved  by  so  many  Councils  and  Fathers 
of  the  Church. 

The  leaders  of  the  defeated  party  lived  as  in  a  desert. 
Their  saloons,  which  only  a  few  days  before  had  been  crowded, 
were  now  empty,  and  Cardinal  Petrucci  himself  was  visited  by 
no  one ;  while  the  Jesuits  were  everywhere  received  with 
enthusiasm,  so  true  to  the  character  that  the  Satirist  gave 
fifteen  himdred  years  before  did  the  Koman  populace  remain — 

"  Sequitur  fortunam,  nt  semper,  et  od^ 

"Damnatos." 

Some  slight  portion  of  this  popular  applause  fell  to  Ingle- 
sant's  lot,  whichever  report  was  believed — whether  as  the  agent 
of  the  Society  he  had  betrayed  his  friends,  or  had  used  his 
influence  to  procm-e  this  imexpected  policy  of  mercy — either 
supposition  procured  him  notoriety  and  even  approbation.  It 
now  only  remained  to  watch  the  fate  of  Molinos,  and  the 
inmates  of  Don  Agostino's  palace  waited  in  silence  the  policy 
of  their  triumphant  opponents.  The  Jesuits  began  by  cii'culat- 
ing  reports  of  his  hypocrisy  and  lewd  course  of  life — facts  of 
which  they  said  they  had  convincing  evidence.  They  said  that 
these  scandals  had  been  proved  before  the  Pope,  who  then,  and 


424  JOHN  inglesant;  [chap,  xxxviii; 

not  till  then,  had  reuouDced  his  cause.  The  Romans  replied  to 
this  story  that  they  believed  it,  for  the  Pope  was  a  good  judge 
of  such  matters,  but  none  at  all  of  the  questions  of  theology  on 
which  the  quarrel  had  previously  turned.  There  was  not  at  the 
time,  and  there  never  has  been  since,  the  slightest  evidence 
offered  publicly  that  these  stories  had  the  least  foundation ;  but 
they  amply  served  their  turn,  insomuch  that  when  Molinos  was 
brought  out  to  the  Minerva  on  the  day  of  his  condemnation,  he 
was  saluted  by  the  people  with  cries  of  "  Fire  !  Fire  !"  and,  but 
that  his  coach  was  resolutely  defended  by  the  Sbirri  and  guards, 
he  woidd  have  been  massacred  by  the  furious  mob. 

When  the  morning  rose  upon  the  day  on  which  his  con- 
demnation was  to  take  place,  the  tribunal  of  the  Minerva,  and 
all  the  avenues  and  corridors  leading  to  it,  were  thronged  with 
an  excited  crowd.  For  days  before,  all  the  efforts  both  of 
money  and  favour  had  been  exerted  to  procure  good  places  in 
the  court  itself,  and  those  who  were  unable  to  gain  these 
coveted  seats  lined  the  corridors  and  staircases,  while  the 
populace  outside  thronged  the  streets  leading  from  the  prison  of 
the  Inquisition.  The  windows  and  house-tops  were  crowded ; 
scarcely  an  inhabitant  of  Rome  but  was  to  be  found  somewhere 
on  the  line  of  route ;  the  rest  of  the  city  was  a  desert. 

The  vine-clad  wastes  of  the  Aventine,  the  green  expanse  of 
the  Campo  Vaccino,  and  the  leafy  walls  of  the  Colosseum  and 
of  the  arches,  were  lying  under  the  morning  sunhght,  calm  and 
quiet  as  in  the  midst  of  a  happy  and  peaceful  world.  As 
Inglesant  came  across  fiom  the  lonely  convent  where  he  still 
occasionally  lodged,  and  turned  out  of  the  square  of  the  Ara 
Coeli,  the  silent^enantless  houses  and  palaces  looked  down  with 
dim  eyes  like  a  city  of  the  dead ;  and  as  he  came  into  the  Via 
del  Gesu  the  distant  hum  and  murmur  of  the  crowd  first  broke 
upon  his  ear.  Here  and  there  a  belated  spectator  like  himself 
turned  out  of  some  bye-street  or  doorway,  and  hastened  towards 
the  Piazza  della  Minerva. 

Inglesant  turned  off  by  a  side  street,  and,  following  the 
narrow  winding  lanes  with  which  he  was  well  acquainted,  came 
out  into  the  Via  di  Coronari  at  some  midway  distance  between 
the  prison  of  the  Inquisition  and  the  Minerva.  He  was  just 
in  time.  As  he  stationed  himself  against  the  wall  of  the 
Church  of  St.  Maria  de  Anima  and  the  German  Hospital,  he 
knew,  by  the  excitement  and  frantic  cries  of  the  crowd,  that 


CHAP.  XXXV III.]  A  ROMANCE.  425 

Molinos  was  not  far  off.  He  was  brought  along  the  street  in 
a  large  coach  with  glass  windows,  a  Dominican  friar  seated  at 
his  side.  On  each  side  of  the  carriage  and  at  the  horees'  heads 
the  Sbirri  and  Swiss  guards  exerted  themselves  manfully  to  keep 
back  the  people  and  to  clear  the  way.  A  deafening  shout  and 
cry  rose  unceasingly,  and  every  few  moments  the  crowd,  pressing 
upon  the  carriage  and  the  guards,  caused  them  to  come  to  a 
dead  stop.  Clinging  to  the  horses'  heads,  to  the  carriage  itself, 
to  the  halberds  of  the  Swiss,  climbing  on  the  steps  and  on  the 
back  of  the  coach,  had  the  crowd  desired  a  rescue,  Inglesant 
thought  one  bold  and  decided  leader  might  have  accomplished 
it  in  a  few  desperate  moments.  But  the  mob  desired  nothing 
less.  This  man — who  but  a  few  weeks  ago  had  been  followed 
by  admiring  crowds,  who  had  been  idolized  in  courtly  saloons, 
whose  steps  and  walks  had  been  watched  with  the  tender  and 
holy  devotion  with  which  a  people  watches  the  man  whose  life 
it  takes  to  be  hid  in  God ;  whom  loving  modest  women  had 
pointed  out  to  their  childi'en  as  the  holy  priest  whom  they  must 
love  and  remember  all  their  lives ;  whom  passionate  women,  on 
whose  souls  the  light  of  God  had  broken,  had  followed  trembling, 
that  they  might  throw  themselves  at  his  feet,  and,  clinging  to 
his  gown,  hear  the  words  of  gospel  from  his  lips;  to  whom 
desperate  men  had  listened  whom  no  other  voice  had  ever 
moved ; — this  man  was  now  the  execration  of  the  mob  of  Rome. 
Amidst  the  roar  and  din  around  no  word  was  distinguishable 
but  that  tenible  one  of  "Fire!"  that  pointed  to  a  heretic's 
death  at  the  stake ;  and,  but  for  the  determined  resistance  of 
.the  guards,  Molinos  would  have  been  dragged  from  the  coach 
and  butchered  in  the  streets. 

When  the  carriage  arrived  opposite  the  spot  upon  which 
Inglesant  had  posted  himself,  he  could  see  Molinos's  face  as  he 
sat  in  the  coach.  He  was  carefully  dressed  in  his  priestly  habit, 
and  looked  about  him  with  a  cheerful  serene  countenance.  "  He 
looks  well,"  said  a  man,  not  far  from  Inglesant,  who  had  been 
very  bitter  against  the  prisoner ;  "  the  secret  of  his  success  is 
not  far  to  seek,  for  his  face  possesses  all  the  charms  that  are 
able  to  captivate,  especially  the  fair  sex." 

When  the  coach  was  close  to  Inglesant  the  crowd  made 
another  and  most  determined  attack,  and  the  horses  came  to 
a  stand.  The  cries  of  "Fire!  Fire!"  rose  louder  and  more 
fiercely,  and  the  guards  were  for  a  moment  beaten  from  one  of 


428  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap.  xxxvilU 

the  doors.  It  seemed  that  nothing  could  prevent  the  people 
from  dragging  their  victim  into  the  street ;  Inglesant  felt  his 
blood  turn  cold,  fully  expecting  to  see  the  massacre  performed 
before  his  eyes;  but  before  the  people  could  open  the  door, 
which  seemed  fastened  on  the  inside,  the  guard  rallied,  and  by 
the  free  use  of  their  halberds  and  short  swords  recovered  the 
coach,  and  drove  back  the  mob. 

Through  all  this  scene  Molinos  had  preserved  his  perfectly 
imconcerned  expression,  and  his  eyes,  wandering  calmly  over 
the  people,  at  last  rested  upon  the  spot  where  Inglesant  stood. 
Whether  he  recognized  him  or  not  Inglesant  did  not  know,  for 
he  involuntarily  drew  back  and  shrank  from  his  eye.  He  learned 
afterwards  that  Molinos  did  recognize  him,  and  also  noticed  his 
recoil.  "  He  fears  I  should  compromise  him  with  the  furious 
crowd,"  he  thought ;  "  he  need  not  fear." 

Inglesant's  movement  was  caused,  however,  by  a  thought 
very  different  from  this  one,  which  indeed  never  occurred  to 
him.  He  was  ashamed  to  meet  Molinos's  eye.  In  the  daylight 
and  sunshine  they  had  walked  together,  but  when  the  trial  came, 
the  one  was  taken,  and  all  the  rest  escaped.  It  was  impossible 
but  that  some  at  least  of  the  fortunate  many  should  feel  some 
pangs  of  uneasiness  and  doubt.  Inglesant  especially,  the  agent 
and  confidant  of  the  Jesuits,  was  open  to  such  thoughts,  and 
before  the  single-hearted  uncompromising  priest  and  confessor 
could  not  but  feel  in  some  sort  condemned.  The  carriage  passed 
on  amid  the  unabated  fury  of  the  people,  and,  turning  aside 
down  a  narrow  winding  lane,  he  entered  the  Dominicans'  Church, 
to  the  reserved  part  of  which  he  had  a  ticket  of  admission,  to. 
be  ready  for  the  final  scene. 

Molinos  was  taken  to  one  of  the  corridors  of  the  Minerva, 
where  he  stood  for  some  time  looking  about  him  very  calmly, 
and  returning  all  the  salutes  which  were  made  him  by  those 
who  had  formerly  been  of  his  acquaintance.  To  all  inquiries 
he  retiu-ned  but  one  answer ;  that  they  saw  a  man  who  was 
defamed,  but  who  was  penitent  (infamato  ma  penitente).  After 
he  had  stood  here  some  time  he  was  conducted  into  a  small 
apartment,  where  a  sumptuous  repast  was  spread  before  him, 
and  he  was  invited  to  partake  as  of  his  last  luxurious  indulgence 
before  being  shut  up  in  a  little  cell  for  life.  A  strange  banquet ! 
and  a  strange  taste  such  delicacies  must  have  to  a  man  at  such 
a  time. 


CHAP.  XXXVIII.]  A  ROMANCE.  427 

After  dinner  he  was  carried  into  the  Church,  as  in  a 
triumph,  in  an  open  chair  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  Sbirri. 
The  tapers  upon  the  altar  shrines  showed  more  clearly  than 
■did  the  dim  and  sober  daylight  that  penetrated  beneath  the 
darkened  roofs  the  three  mystic  aisles  of  the  strange  Church, 
which  were  filled  with  a  brilliant  company  of  cardinals,  nobles, 
innumerable  ladies,  gentlemen  of  every  rank,  ecclesiastics  with- 
out end.  The  dark  marble  walls,  the  sumptuous  crowd,  the 
rich  coloiu-s  of  the  stained  glass,  gave  a  kind  of  lurid  splendour 
to  the  scene ;  while  on  every  side  the  sculptured  forms  upon 
the  monuments,  with  stolid  changeless  features,  stood  out  pale 
amidst  the  surrounding  gloom ;  and  here  and  there,  where  free 
space  was  kept,  the  polished  marble  floor  reflected  the  sombre 
brilliancy  of  the  whole. 

As  Molinos  was  brought  up  to  his  place  he  made  a  low  and 
devout  reverence  to  the  Cardinals,  and  his  manner  was  perfectly 
possessed  and  without  a  show  of  fear  or  shame.  He  was  made 
to  stand  up  before  the  altar,  a  chain  was  bound  round  hjpi  and 
fastened  to  his  wrists,  and  a  wax  taper  was  placed  in  his  hand. 
Then  with  a  loud  voice  a  friar  read  his  Process,  so  as  to  be 
heard  by  all  in  the  Church;  and  as  some  of  the  articles 
were  read,  there  were  loud  cries  from  the  reverend  and  polite 
assembly  of  "  Fire  !  Fire  !" 

In  a  few  moments  the  sight  was  over,  and  Molinos  was  led 
back  to  the  street,  to  be  placed  this  time  in  a  close  carriage, 
and  taken  back  to  the  prison,  where  his  cell  was  prepared.  As 
Inglesant  stepped  back  into  the  aisle  of  the*  Church  he  felt 
some  one  pull  him  by  his  Benedictine  gown,  and,  turning 
round,  he  saw  a  lady  in  a  velvet  masque.  She  appeared  ex- 
cited, and,  as  far  as  he  could  see,  was  weeping,  and  her  voice, 
which  he  thought  he  recognized,  was  broken  and  indistinct. 

"  Cavaliere,"  she  said,  "  he  will  stop  a  moment  in  the  vesti- 
bule before  they  put  him  in  the  coach.  I  want  him  to  have 
this — he  must  have  it — it  will  be  a  relief  and  consolation  to 
him  unspeakable.  They  will  stop  all  of  us,  and  will  let  no  one 
come  to  him ;  but  they  will  let  you.  You  are  a  Jesuit,  and 
their  friend.  For  the  love  of  Gesu,  Cavaliere,  do  him  and 
me  and  all  of  us  this  favour.  He  will  bless  you  and  pray 
for  you.  He  will  intercede  for  you.  For  the  love  of  God, 
Cavaliere  !" 

She  was   pleaflii.g  with  such   eager  tearfulness  and  such 


428  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [cHAP.  xxxviii. 

hurried  speech  and  gesture,  that  he  could  not  doubt  her  truth, 
yet  he  paused  a  moment. 

"  Surely  I  know  your  voice  ?"  he  said. 

"  Ah  !  you  know  me,"  replied  the  masque,  "  but  that  is  of 
no  consequence.  Another  moment,  and  it  will  be  too  late. 
Cavaliere  !  for  the  love  of  Gesu  !" 

Inglesant  took  the  small  paper  packet,  which  seemed  to 
contain  a  casket,  and  went  down  the  fast  emptying  Church. 
As  he  reached  the  entrance  he  turned  and  looked  back  for  the 
velvet  masque,  but  she  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  His  mind 
was  full  of  suspicion,  yet  he  was  not  unwilling  to  fulfil  his 
mission.  He  should,  at  any  rate,  speak  to  Molinos,  and  per- 
haps grasp  his  hand. 

In  the  vestibule  Molinos  stood  alone,  a  circle  being  kept 
at  some  distance  round  him  by  the  guard.  His  manner  was 
unchanged  and  calm.  The  select  crowd  stood  around  gazing 
at  him  with  eager  curiosity ;  outside  might  be  heard  again 
the  shouting  of  the  mob,  and  the  cry  of  "Fire!"  Inglesant 
advanced  towards  the  Captain  of  the  Sbirri ;  but  to  his  sur- 
prise, before  he  could  speak,  the  latter  made  a  sign,  and  the 
guards  fell  back  to  let  him  pass.  A  murmur  ran  through  the 
crowd,  and  every  one  pressed  forward  with  intense  eagerness. 
Molinos  looked  up,  and  an  expression  of  grateful  pleasure  lighted 
up  his  face  as  he  extended  his  hand.  Inglesant  grasped  it 
with  emotion,  and  looking  him  in  the  face,  said, — 

"  Adieu,  Father ;  you  are  more  to  be  envied  than  we.  You 
are  clothed  in  the  heavenly  garment  and  sit  down  at  the  supper 
of  the  King ;  we  wander  in  the  outer  darkness,  with  an  aching 
conscience  that  cannot  rest." 

The  expression  of  the  other's  face  was  compassionate  and 
beautiful,  and  he  said, — 

"  Adieu,  Cavaliere ;  we  shall  meet  again  one  day,  when  the 
veil  shall  be  taken  from  the  face  of  God,  and  we  shall  see  Him 
as  He  is." 

As  Inglesant  grasped  his  hand  he  slipped  the  casket  into 
it,  and  as  he  did  so  dropped  on  one  knee.  The  hand  of  the 
priest  rested  on  his  head  for  a  moment,  and  in  the  next  he  had 
risen  and  stepped  back,  and  the  guards  closed  in  for  the  last 
time  round  Molinos,  and  the  crowd  pressed  after,  following 
them  to  tjie  coach. 

Wheu  the  carriage  had  diiven  off,  and  the  crowd  somewhatf 


CHAP.  XXXVIII.]  A  ROMANCE.  429 

dispersed,  Inglesant  came  down  the  steps,  and  was  turning  to 
the  right  into  the  Corso  when  he  was  surprised  to  see  tliat  the 
Captain  of  the  Sbirri  had  not  followed  his  prisoner,  but  was 
standing  on  the  causeway  with  two  or  three  of  his  men,  neai 
a  plain  carriage  which  was  waiting.  As  Inglesant  came  up  he 
turned  to  him,  and  said  politely, — 

**  Pardon,  Signore  Cavaliere,  I 'must  ask  you  to  come  with 
me.  You  have  conveyed  a  packet  to  a  condemned  prisoner — 
a  grave  offence — a  packet  which  contains  poison.  You  will 
come  quietly,  no  doubt." 

"  I  will  come  quietly,  certainly,"  said  Inglesant.  *'  Where 
are  we  going  ?  to  the  Inquisition  ?" 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  other,  as  he  followed  the  new  prisoner 
into  the  coach ;  "  yours  is  a  civil  offence ;  we  are  going  to  the 
St.  Angelo." 

"  The  General  must  have  a  taste  for  theatricals,"  thought 
Inglesant  as  the  coach  rolled  oflf,  "or  he  never  could  have 
planned  such  a  melodrama." 

On  their  arrival  at  the  Castle  he  was  conducted  into  a  good 
room,  not  in  the  tower,  which  commanded  an  extensive  view 
of  St.  Peter's.  Great  liberty  was  allowed  him,  everything  he 
liked  to  pay  for  was  procured  for  him,  and  at  certain  hours  he 
was  allowed  to  walk  on  the  glacis  and  fortifications. 

The  second  day  of  his  confinement  was  drawing  to  a  close 
when  he  was  visited  by  the  Dominican  who  had  attended 
Molinos.  Tliis  monk,  who  seemed  a  superior  person,  had  evi- 
dently been  impressed  by  the  conversation  and  character  of  his 
prisoner.     After  the  first  greeting  he  said, — 

"  That  unhappy  man  requested  me  to  bring  you  a  message. 
It  was  to  the  effect  that  he  had  done  you  wrong.  He  saw  you 
among  the  crowd  as  he  was  being  brought  to  the  Minerva,  and 
noticed  that  you  shrank  back.  He  accused  you  in  his  mind  of 
fearing  to  be  compromised ;  he  knows  now  that,  on  the  contrary, 
you  were  watching  for  an  opportunity  to  do  him  a  service.  It 
was  but  the  thought  of  a  moment,  but  he  could  not  rest  until 
he  had  acknowledged  it,  and  begged  your  forgiveness.  He  bade 
me  also  to  tell  you  that  *  the  bruised  reed  is  not  broken,  nor 
the  smoking  flax  quenched.' " 

"Where  did  you  leave  him  1"  said  Inglesant. 

"  At  the  door  of  his  cell,  which  he  calls  his  cabinet.** 

"'The  smokin^'  flax  is  not  quenched/"  said  Inglesant;  "I 


i30  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  iCHAP.  xxxvili. 

hear  that  one  of  his  followers,  a  day  or  two  ago,  before  the 
tribunal  told  the  examiners  to  their  faces  that  they  *  were  a 
company  of  unjust,  cruel,  and  heretical  men,  and  that  the 
measure  which  they  dealt  to  others  was  the  same  that  Christ 
Himself  had  received  from  His  persecutors.'" 

"It  is  true,"  said  the  Dominican,  "and  it  is  true  also  that 
he  is  released ;  such,  on  the  contrary,  is  the  clemency  of  the 
Church." 

After  an  imprisonment  of  about  a  fortnight,  as  Inglesant 
was  one  day  taking  his  usual  walk  upon  the  fortifications,  he 
was  informed  that  the  General  of  the  Order  was  in  his  room, 
and  desired  to  see  him.  He  went  to  him  immediately,  and  was 
received  with  great  appearance  of  friendliness. 

"You  will  pardon  my  little  plot,  Cavaliere,"  said  the 
General,  "  especially  as  I  gave  orders  that  you  should  be  made 
very  comfortable  here.  I  wished  to  see  in  what  manner  and 
how  far  you  were  our  servant,  and  I  have  succeeded  admirably. 
I  find,  as  I  imagined,  that  you  are  invaluable ;  but  it  must  be 
on  your  own  terms,  and  at  your  own  time.  You  are  faithful 
and  unflinching  when  you  have  undertaken  anything,  but  each 
mission  must  be  entered  upon  or  renounced  at  your  own  pleasure. 
I  hope  you  have  not  been  nourishing  bitter  thoughts  of  me  during 
your  incarceration  here." 

"Far  from  it,"  replied  Inglesant;  "I  have  nothing  to 
complain  of.  I  have  all  I  want,  and  the  view  from  these 
windows  is,  as  you  see,  unrivalled  in  Rome.  If  it  consists  with 
your  policy,  I  should  take  it  as  a  great  favour  were  you  to 
inform  me  whether  the  velvet  masque  was  a  mere  tool  or  not. 
I  could  have  sworn  that  her  accent  and  manner  were  those  of  a 
person  speaking  the  truth  ;  still,  when  the  captain  of  the  Sbirri 
made  way  for  me  I  thought  I  was  in  the  toils." 

"  Your  penetration  did  not  err.     The  lady  was  the  Countess 

of .    She  conceived  the  idea  of  communicating  with  Molinos 

herself,  and  confided  it  to  her  director — not  in  confession,  observe. 
He  consulted  me,  and  we  advised  what  took  place ;  and,  what 
may  console  you  still  farther,  we  did  the  lady  no  wrong.  We 
have  reason  to  know  that,  besides  the  poison,  some  writing  was 
conveyed  to  Molinos  together  with  the  casket,  by  which  he 
obtained  information  which  he  was  very  desirous  of  receiving. 
You  will  forgive  me  now,  since  your  'amour  propre'  is  not 
touched,  and  your  friend's  purpose  is  served." 


CHAP,  xxxviii.]  A  ROMANCE.  431 

There  was  a  pause,  after  which  the  General  said, — 
"You  have  deserved  well  of  the  Order — few  better;  and 
whatever  their  enemies  may  say,  the  Companions  of  Jesus  are 
not  unmindful  of  their  children,  nor  ungrateful,  unless  the 
highest  necessities  of  the  general  good  require  it.  You  look 
upon  the  prosecution  of  Molinos  as  an  act  of  intolerable  tyranny, 
and  you  are  yourself  eager  to  enter  upon  a  crusade  on  behalf  of 
religious  freedom  and  of  the  rights  of  private  devotion  and 
judgment.  You  are  ready  to  engage  almost  single-handed 
against  the  whole  strength  of  the  Society  of  Jesus,  of  the 
Curia,  and  of  the  existing  powers.  I  say  nothing  of  the 
Quixotic  nature  of  the  enterprise ;  that  would  not  deter  you. 
Nor  of  its  utter  hopelessness ;  how  hopeless  you  may  judge 
from  the  sudden  collapse  of  the  party  of  Molinos — a  party  so 
favoured  in  high  places,  so  fashionable,  patronized,  as  has  been 
said,  even  by  the  Pope  himself.  You  may  also  judge  of  this 
from  the  fact,  of  which  you  are  probably  aware,  that  every 
detail  of  your  late  meeting  was  communicated  to  us  by  the 
President  of  that  meeting,  and  by  many  of  those  who  attended 
it.  But  in  speaking  of  these  matters  to  you,  whose  welfare  I 
sincerely  seek,  I  address  myself  to  another  argument  which  I 
imagine  will  have  more  weight.  You  have  only  considered  this 
coveted  spiritual  freedom  as  the  right  of  the  favoured  few,  of 
the  educated  and  refined.  You  have  no  desire  and  no  intention 
that  it  should  be  extended  to  the  populace.  But  you  do  not 
consider,  as  those  who  have  the  guidance  of  the  Church  polity 
are  bound  to  consider,  that  to  grant  it  to  the  one  and  deny  it 
to  the  other  is  impossible ;  that  these  principles  are  sure  to 
spread  ;  that  in  England  and  in  other  countries  where  they 
have  spread  they  have  been  the  occasion  of  incalculable  mis- 
chiefs. You  are  standing  at  this  moment,  thanks  chiefly  to  the 
nurture  and  clemency  of  the  much-abused  Society  of  Jesus,  at  a 
point  where  you  may  choose  one  of  two  roads,  which,  joining 
here,  will  never  meet  again.  The  question  is  between  individual 
license  and  obedience  to  authority ;  and  upon  the  choice,  though 
you  may  not  think  it,  depends  the  very  existence  of  Christianity 
in  the  world.  Between  unquestioning  obedience  to  authority 
and  absolute  unbelief  there  is  not  a  single  permanent  resting- 
place,  though  many  temporary  halts  may  be  made.  You  will 
scarcely  dispute  this  when  you  remember  that  every  lieretical 
sect  admits  it.     They  only  differ  as  to  what  the  autliority  is  to 


432  JOHN  INGLESANTj  [CHAP.  xxxvill. 

which  obedience  is  due.  We,  in  Rome  at  least,  cannot  be 
expected  to  allow  any  authority  save  that  of  the  Catholic 
Church,  and  indeed  what  other  can  you  place  instead  of  it — 
a  Bookl  Do  you  think  that  those  who  have  entered  upon 
the  path  of  inquiry  will  long  submit  to  be  fettered  by  the 
pages  of  dead  languages  ?  You  know  more  of  this  probably 
than  I  do,  from  your  acquaintance  with  the  sceptics  of  other 
lands." 

He  paused  as  if  waiting  for  a  reply,  but  Inglesant  did  not 
speak ;  perhaps  the  logic  of  the  Jesuit  seemed  to  him  unanswer- 
able— especially  in  the  St.  Angelo  at  Rome. 

After  a  few  seconds  the  latter  went  on, — 

"  Ah  !  I  fear  you  still  bear  me  some  malice.  If  so,  I  regret 
it  very  much.  As  I  said  before,  you  have  no  truer  friend  in 
Rome  than  the  Order  and  its  unworthy  General.  I  am  con- 
vinced, both  by  my  own  experience  and  by  the  reports  of  others, 
that  you  are  an  invaluable  friend  and  agent  of  the  Society 
in  countries  where  men  like  you,  gentlemen  of  honour,  bold, 
unflinching,  and  of  spotless  name,  are  wanted  at  every  turn, — 
men  who  have  the  confidence  of  both  parties,  of  enemies  as 
well  as  friends.  But  long  ere  this  you  will  have  seen  that 
here  in  Rome  we  do  things  differently ;  here  we  strike  openly 
and  at  once,  and  we  require  agents  of  a  far  lower  type,  not  so 
much  agents,  indeed,  as  hammers  ready  to  our  hand.  Your 
refined  nature  is  altogether  out  of  place.  As  a  friend  I  recom- 
mend your  return  to  England.  Father  St.  Clare  is  there,  and 
no  doubt  requires  you,  and  I  am  very  certain  that  the  climate 
of  Rome  will  not  suit  your  health.  You  have  passed  some 
years  very  pleasantly  in  Italy,  as  I  believe,  in  spite  of  your 
share  in  those  great  sorrows  to  which  we  all  are  heir;  and 
though  I  am  grieved  to  separate  you  from  your  friends,  the 
noblest  in  Rome,  yet  it  is  better  that  you  should  be  parted  in 
this  manner  than  by  sharper  and  more  sudden  means.  Every 
facility  shall  be  given  you  for  transferring  your  property  to 
England,  and  I  hope  you  will  take  with  you  no  unpleasant 
recollections  of  this  city  and  of  the  poor  Fathers  of  Jesus,  who 
wish  you  well." 

He  pronounced  these  last  words  with  so  much  feeling  that 
Inglesant  could  only  reply, — 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say  of  the  Society  but  what  is  good. 
It  has  ever  been  most  tender  and  parental  to  me.     I  Rlia'i  r_,o 


CHAP,  xxxjx:.]  A  ROMANCE.  433 

away  with  nothing  but  sadness  and  affection  in  ray  heart ;  with 
nothing  but  gratitude  towards  you,  Father,  with  nothing  but 
reverence  towards  this  city — the  mother  of  the  World," 


"    CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

For  a  long  time  nothing  was  found  among  the  papers  from 
which  these  memoirs  have  been  compiled  relative  to  Mr.  Ingle- 
sant's  life  subsequent  to  his  return  to  England ;  but  at  last  the 
following  imperfect  letter  was  found,  which  is  here  given  as 
containing  all  the  information  on  the  subject  which  at  present 
is  known  to  exist. 

The  date,  with  the  first  part  of  the  letter,  is  torn  oflf.  The 
first  perfect  line  is  given.  The  spelling  has  been  modernized 
throughout.     The  superscription  is  as  follows  : — 

Mr.  Anthony  Paschall, 

«        Physician, 

London, 
from  his  friend, 

Mr,  Valentine  Lee, 

Chirurgeon, 

Of  Reading, 

From  a  certain  tone  in  parts  of  the  letter  it  would  seem 
that  the  writer  was  one  of  those  who  gave  cause  for  the  accusa- 
tion of  scepticism  brought  in  those  days  against  the  medical 
profession  generally. 

*****  ^jjat  vine,  laden  with  grapes  worked  in 
gold  and  precious  stones,  after  the  manner  of  Phrygian  work, 
which,  according  to  Josephus,  Tacitus,  and  other  writers, 
adorned  the  Temple  at  Jerusalem,  and  was  seen  of  many  when 
that  Temple  was  destroyed ;  a  manifest  continuance  of  the  old 
Eastern  worship  of  Bacchus,  so  dear  to  the  human  frailty.  As 
says  the  poet  Anacreon,  "  Make  me,  good  Vulcan,  a  deep  bowl, 
and  carve  on  it  neither  Charles's  Wain,  nor  the  sad  Orion,  but 
carve  me  out  a^iue  with  its  swelling  gi-apes,  and  Cupid,  Bacchus, 
and  Bathillus  pressing  them  together."  For  it  is  a  gallant 
philosophy,  and  the  deepest  wisdom,  which,  under  the  shadow 

2f 


434  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [cHAP.  XXXIX. 

of  talismans  and  austere  emblems,  wears  the  colours  of  enjoy- 
ment and  of  life. 

Methinks  if  the  Puritans  of  the  last  age  had  known  that 
the  same  word  in  Latin  means  both  worship  and  the  culture  of 
polite  life,  they  would  not  have  condemned  both  themselves 
and  us  to  so  many  years  of  shadowy  gloom  and  of  a  morose 
antipathy  to  all  delight.  And  though  they  will  perchance 
retort  upon  me  that  the  same  word  in  the  Greek  meaneth  both 
worship  and  bondage,  yet  I  shall  reply  that  it  was  a  service  of 
love  and  pleasure — a  service  in  which  all  the  beauties  of  earth 
were  called  upon  to  aid,  and  in  which  the  Deity  was  best 
pleased  by  the  happiness  of  His  creatures,  whose  every  faculty 
of  delight  had  been  fully  husbanded  and  trained.  In  these  last 
happy  days,  since  his  gracious  Majesty's  return,  we  have  seen  a 
restoration  of  a  cheerfid  gaiety,  and  adorning  of  men's  lives, 
when  painting  and  poetry,  and,  beyond  all,  music,  have  smoothed 
the  rough  ways  and  softened  the  hard  manners  of  men. 

I  came  to  Oxford,  traveUing  in  the  Flying  Coach  with  a 
Quaker  who  inveighed  greatly  against  the  iniquity  of  the  age. 
At  Oxford  I  saw  more  than  I  ha^^  space  to  tell  you  of;  amongst 
others,  Francis  Tatton,  who,  you  will  recollect,  left  his  rehgion 
since  the  King's  return,  and  sheltered  himself  amongst  the 
Jesuits.  He  was  but  lately  come  to  Oxford,  and  lodged  at 
Francis  Alder's  against  the  Fleur-de-lis.  I  dined  with,  him 
there  along  with  some  others,  and  it  being  a  Friday,  they  had 
a  good  fish  dirmer  with  white  wine.  Among  the  guests  was 
one  Father  Lovel,  a  Jesuit.  He  has  lived  in  Oxford  many- 
years  to  supply  service  for  the  Catholics,  so  bold  and  free  are 
the  Papists  now, 

I  conversed  with  another  of  the  guests,  a  physician,  who 
after  dinner  took  me  to  his  house  in  Bear  Lane,  and  showed 
me  his  study,  in  a  pleasant  room  to  the  south,  overlooking  some 
of  Christ  Chiu:ch  gardens.  Here  he  began  to  complain  of  the 
Koyal  Society,  and  the  Virtuosi,  and  I  soon  saw  that  he  was  a 
follower  of  Dr.  Gideon  Harvey  and  Mr.  Stubbes.  "  The  country 
owes  much,"  he  said,  "  to  such  men  as  Burleigh,  Walsingham, 
Jewel,  Abbot,  Usher,  Casaubon ;  but  if  this  new-fangled  philo- 
sophy and  mechanical  education  is  to  bear  the  bell,  I  foresee 
that  we  shall  look  in  vain  in  England  for  such  men  again.  In 
these  deep  and  subtle  inquiries  into  natural  philosophy  and  the 
intricate  mechanisms  by  which  this  world  is  said  to  be  governed. 


CHAP.  XXXIX.]  A  ROMANCE.  ^35 

neitlier  physic  will  be  unconcerned  nor  will  religion  remain 
iinsbaken  amidst  the  writings  of  these  "Virtuosi.  That  art  of 
reasoning  by  which  the  i:)rudent  are  discriminated  from  fools, 
which  methodizes  and  facilitates  our  discourse,  which  informs 
us  of  the  validity  of  consequences  and  the  probability  of  argu- 
nvents — that  art  which  gives  life  to  solid  eloquence,  and  which 
renders  statesmen,  divines,  physicians,  and  lawyers  accomplished 
— how  is  this  cried  down  and  vilified  by  the  ignoramuses  of 
these  days ! " 

I  pleased  myself  with  inspecting  this  man's  books,  with 
which  his  study  was  well  stored,  and  with  the  view  from  his 
window;  but  I  let  his  tongue  run  on  uncontradicted,  seeing 
that  he  was  of  the  old  Protestant  and  scholastic  learning,  which 
is  never  open  to  let  in  new  light.  He  entertained  me,  besides, 
with  a  long  discourse  to  prove  that  Geber  the  chemist  was  not 
an  Indian  King,  and  informed  me  with  great  glee  that  the 
Royal  Society,  among  other  new-fangled  propositions,  had  con- 
ceived the  idea  of  working  silk  into  hats,  which  project,  though 
the  hatters  laughed  at  it,  yet  to  satisfy  them  trial  was  made,  and 
for  twenty  shillings  they  had  a  hat  made,  but  it  proved  so  bad 
that  any  one  might  have  bought  a  better  one  for  eighteenpence. 

He  was  entering  upon  a  long  argimient  against  Descartes, 
to  refute  whom  he  was  obliged  to  contradict  much  that  he  had 
said  before,  but  at  this  time  I  excused  myself  and  left  him. 

When  I  came  out  from  this  man's  house  the  college  bells 
were  going  for  Chapel,  as  they  used  to  do  in  the  old  time; 
methought  it  was  the  prettiest  music  I  had  heard  for  many  a 
day.  I  went  to  see  an  old  man  I  remembered  in  Jesus  Laue. 
I  found  him  in  the  same  httle  house,  di'essed  in  his  gown  tied 
round  the  middle,  the  sleeves  pinned  behind,  and  his  dudgeon 
with  a  knife  and  bodkin ;  it  was  the  fashion  for  grave  people 
to  wear  such  gowns  in  the  latter  end  of  Queen  Elizabeth's  days. 
He  says  he  is  104.  When  I  was  a  boy  at  Oxon  I  used  to  be 
always  inquiring  of  him  of  the  old  time,  the  rood  lofts,  the 
ceremonies  in  the  College  Chapels;  and  his  talk  is  still  of  Queen 
Bess  her  days,  and  of  the  old  people  who  remembered  the  host 
and  the  wafer  biead  and  the  roods  in  the  Churches.  In  my 
time,  at  Oxford,  crucifixes  were  common  jn  the  glass  in  the 
study  windows,  and  in  the  chamber  windows  pictures  of  saints. 
This  was  "  before  the  wars."  What  a  different  world  it  was 
Deforc  the  -wars  !     What  strange  old-world  customs  and  thoughts 


436  JOHN  INGLESANT;  [CHAP.  XXXEt 

and  stories  vanished  like  phantoms  when  the  war  trumpets 
sounded,  and  great  houses  and  proud  names,  and  dominions  and 
manors,  and  stately  woods,  crumbled  into  dust,  and  every  man 
did  as  seemed  good  to  himself,  and  thought  as  he  liked. 

On  the  Sunday  I  went  to  St.  Mary's,  and  heard  a  preacher 
and  herbalist,  who  spoke  of  the  virtues  of  plants  and  of  tUie 
Christian  life  in  one  breath.  He  told  us  that  Homer  writ  sub- 
limely and  called  them  x^^P^?  deiov,  the  hands  of  the  Gods,  and 
that  we  ought  to  reach  to  them  religiously  with  praise  and 
thanksgiving.  *'  God  Almighty,"  he  said,  "  hath  fm-nished  us 
with  plants  to  ciu"e  us  within  a  few  miles  of  our  own  abodes, 
and  we  know  it  not." 

The  next  day  I  came  to  Worcester  by  the  post,  to  the  house 
of  my  old  friend  Nathaniel  Tomkins,  who  is  now  one  of  the 
Prebends  and  Keceptor.  He  lives  in  the  close,  or  College 
Green,  as  they  call  it  here.  He  comes  of  a  family  of  musicians. 
His  grandfather  was  chanter  of  the  Choir  of  Gloucester ;  his 
father  organist  to  the  same  Cathedral  of  Worcester,  and  one  of 
his  uncles  organist  of  St.  Paul's  and  gentleman  of  the  Chapel 
Koyal,  and  another,  of  whom  more  anon,  gentleman  of  the 
Privy  Chamber  to  His  Majesty  Charles  the  First,  and  well 
skilled  in  the  practical  part  of  music,  and  was  happily  trans- 
lated to  the  celestial  choir  of  angels  before  the  troubles. 

I  was  pleased  to  see  the  faithful  city  recovered  from  the 
ashes  in  which  she  sat  when  I  was  here  last,  and  the  daily 
service  of  song  again  restored  to  the  Cathedral  Church,  though 
the  latter  is  much  out  of  repair  and  dimmed  as  to  its  splendoiu^. 
I  like  that  religion  the  best  which  gives  us  sweet  anthems  and 
solemn  organ  music  and  lively  parts  of  melody. 

I  had  not  been  here  long  when  my  friend  the  Eeceptor  told 
me  that  if  I  should  stay  two  or  three  days  longer,  I  should 
hear  as  good  a  concert  of  violins  as  any  in  England,  and  also 
hear  a  gentleman  lately  come  from  Italy,  whose  skill  as  a  lutiiiist 
and  player  on  the  violin  had  preceded  him.  When  I  asked  for 
the  name  of  this  gentleman,  he  told  me  it  was  that  Mr.  John 
Inglesant  who  was  servant  to  the  late  King,  and  of  whom  so 
much  was  spoken  in  the  time  of  the  Irish  Rebellion.  When  I 
heard  this  I  resolved  to  stay,  as  you  may  suppose,  considering 
that  we  have  more  than  once  spoken  together  of  this  person  and 
desired  to  see  him,  especially  since  it  had  been  reported  that  ha 
wasj  returned  to  England. 


CHAP.  XXXIX.]  A  ROMANCE.  i37 

I  therefore  willingly  promised  to  remain,  and  spent  my  time 
in  practising  on  the  violin,  and  in  the  city  and  cathedral.  I 
walked  upon  the  river  bank,  and  up  and  down  the  fine  broad 
streets  leading  from  the  bridge  to  the  catliedral.  From  the 
gates  of  the  chancel  down  the  stone  steps  the  strange  light 
streamed  on  to  the  paved  floor  of  the  nave,  chill  and  silent  as 
the  grave  until  the  strains  of  the  organs  awoke.  Mr.  Tomkins 
told  me  that  the  loyal  gentry  of  the  surrounding  counties  had, 
during  the  usurpation,  made  it  a  point  of  honom*  to  piu-chase 
and  tirade  in  Worcester,  for  the  relief  and  encouragement  of  the 
citizens,  who  were  reduced  to  so  low  an  ebb  by  the  battle  and 
taking  of  the  city. 

Thursday  was  the  day  appointed  for  the  music  meeting, 
and  on  that  day  I  accompanied  Mr.  Tomkins  to  the  house  of 
Mr.  Barnabas  Oley,  another  of  the  Prebends,  who,  you  may 
remember,  wrote  a  preface,  a  year  or  two  ago,  to  Mr.  Herbert's 
"  Country  Parson."  He  also  lives  in  the  College  Green,  and 
we  found  the  company  assembling  in  an  oak  parlour,  which 
looked  upon  an  orchard  where  the  trees  were  in  full  blossom. 
There  were  present  several  of  the  clergy,  and  two  or  three 
physicians  and  other  gentlemen,  who  practised  upon  the  violin. 

As  we  entered  the  room,  Mr.  Oley  was  speaking  of  JMr. 
Inglesant,  who  was  expected  to  come  presently  with  the 
Dean. 

"I  remember  him  well,"  he  was  saying,  "when  I  was  in 
poverty  and  sequestration  in  the  late  troubles.  He  was  supposed 
to  be  in  all  the  King's  secrets,  and  was  constantly  employed  in 
private  messages  and  errands.  Some  said  that  he  was  a  con- 
cealed Papist,  but  I  have  known  him  to  attend  the  Chiu:ch 
service  very  devoutly.  I  recollect  when  I  was  in  the  garrison 
at  Pontefract  Castle,  and  used  to  preach  there  as  long  as  it  held 
out  for  his  Majesty,  that  this  Mr.  Inglesant  suddenly  appeared 
amongst  us,  though  the  leaguer  was  very  close,  and  I  know  he 
attended  service  there  once  or  twice.  I  was  often  at  that  time 
in  want  of  bread,  during  my  hidings  and  wanderings,  and 
obV"ged  to  change  my  habit,  and  did  constantly  appear  in  a 
cU>iik  and  gray  clothes  On  one  of  these  occasions,  when  I  was 
in  great  distress  and  Wcxs  diligently  and  particularly  sought  for  by 
the  rebels,  who  would  willingly  have  gratified  those  that  would 
have  discovered  me,  I  fell  in  with  this  Mr.  Inglesant  at  an  inn  in 
Buckinghamshire.     He  was  then  in  company  with  one  whom  I 


438  JOHN  INGLESANT,  [CHAP.  xxxix. 

knew  to  be  a  Pcpish  Priest,  but  tliey  both  exerted  themselves 
very  kindly  in  my  behalf,  and  'conducted  me  to  the  house  of  a 
Cathclic  gentleman  in  those  parts  by  whom  I  was  entertained 
several  days.  Before  this,  I  now  recollect,  at  the  beginning  of 
the  wars,  I  met  Mr.  Inglesaut  at  Oxford.  I  was  in  the  shop 
of  a  bookseller  named  Forrest,  against  All  Souls'  College.  I 
remember  that  I  took  up  Plato's  select  dialogues,  'De  rebus 
divinis,'  in  Greek  and  Latin,  and  excepted  against  some  things 
as  superfluous  and  cabalistical,  and  that  Mr.  Inglesant,  who  was 
then  a  very  young  man,  defended  the  author  in  a  way  that 
showed  his  scholarship.  It  was  summer  weather  and  very 
warm,  and  the  enemy's  cannon  were  playing  upon  the  city  as 
we  could  hear  as  we  talked  in  the  shop." 

While  Mr.  Oley  was  thus  recollecting  his  past  troubles,  Mr. 
Dean  was  announced,  and  entered  the  room  accompanied  by  Mr. 
Inglesant  and  by  a  servant  who  carried  their  violins.  You  are, 
I  know,  acquainted  with  the  Dean,  who  is  also  Bishop  of  St. 
David's,  and  who,  they  say,  will  be  Bishop  of  Worcester  also 
before  long,  so  I  need  not  describe  him.  The  first  sight  of  Mr. 
Inglesant  pleased  me  very  much.  He  wore  his  own  hair  long, 
after  the  fashion  of  the  last  age,  but  in  other  respects  he  was 
dressed  in  the  mode,  in  a  French  suit  of  black  satin,  with 
cravat  and  ruffles  of  Mechlin  lace.  His  expression  was  lofty 
and  abstracted,  his  features  pale  and  somewhat  thin,  and  his 
carriage  gave  me  the  idea  of  a  man  who  had  seen  the  world, 
and  in  whom  few  things  were  capable  of  exciting  any  extreme 
interest  or  attention.  His  eyes  were  light  blue,  of  that  peculiar 
shade  which  gives  a  dreamy  and  indifferent  expression  to  the 
face.  His  manner  was  courteous  and  polite,  almost  to  excess, 
yet  he  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  man  who  was  habitually  superior 
to  his  company,  and  I  felt  in  his  presence  almost  as  1  should 
do  in  that  of  a  prince.  Something  of  this  doubtless  was  due  to 
the  sense  I  had  of  the  part  he  had  played  in  the  great  events  of 
the  late  troubles,  and  of  the  nearness  of  intercoiu-se  and  of  the 
confidence  he  had  enjoyed  with  his  late  Majesty  of  blessed 
memory.  .  It  was  impossible  not  to  look  with  interest  upon  a 
man  who  had  been  so  familiar  with  the  secret  history  of  those 
times,  and  who  had  b^en  taken  into  the  confidence  both  of 
Papists  and  Churchmen, 

When  he  Lad  been  introduced  to  the  company,  Mr.  Oley 
reminded  him  of  the  iiicidents  he  had  been  relating  before  his 


BHAP.  XXXIX.]  A  ROMANCE.  439 

arrival.  When  he  mentioned  the  meeting  in  the  inn  in  Buck- 
mghamshire,  Mr.  Ingles  ant  seemed  affected. 

"  I  remember  it  well,"  he  said.  "  I  was  with  Father  St. 
Clare,  whose  deathbed  I  attended  not  two  months  after  my 
return  to  England.  Do  you  remember,  Mr.  Oley,"  he  went  on 
to  say,  "  the  sermons  at  St.  Martin's  in  Oxford,  where  Mr.  Giles 
Widdowes  preached  1  I  remember  seeing  you  there,  sir,  and 
indeed  his  high  and  loyal  sermons  were  much  frequented  by  the 
royal  party  and  soldiers  of  the  garrison ;  and  I  ha^'e  heard  that 
he  was  most  benevolent  to  many  of  the  most  needy  in  their 
distress.  I  remember  that  poor  Whitford  played  the  organs 
there  often,  before  he  was  killed  in  the  trenches." 

"Ah,"  said  Mr.  Oley,  "we  have  heard  strange  music  in 
our  day.  I  was  in  York  when  it  was  besieged  by  three  very 
notable  and  great  armies — the  Scotch,  the  Northern  under  Lord 
Fairfax,  and  the  Southern  under  the  Earl  of  Manchester  and 
Oliver.  At  that  time  the  service  at  the  Cathedral  every  Sunday 
morning  was  attended  by  more  than  a  thousand  ladies,  knights, 
and  gentlemen,  besides  soldiers  and  citizens ;  when  the  booming 
of  cannon  broke  in  upon  the  singing  of  the  psalms,  and  more 
than  once  a  cannon  bullet  burst  into  the  Minster  amongst  the 
people,  like  a  furious  fiend  or  evil  spirit,  yet  no  one  hurt." 

After  some  talk  of  this  nature  we  settled  om-selves  to  oiu" 
music  and  to  tune  our  instruments.  Mr.  Inglesant's  violin  was 
inscribed  "Jacobus  Stainer  in  Absam  propd  (Enipontcm  1647  :" 
(Enipons  is  the  Latin  name  of  Inspruck  in  Germany,  the  chief 
city  of  the  Tyrol,  where  this  maker  lived.  As  soon  as  Mr. 
Inglesant  drew  his  bow  across  the  strings  I  was  astonished  at 
the  full  and  piercing  tone,  which  seemed  to  me  to  exceed  even 
that  of  the  Cremonas. 

We  played  a  concert  or  two,  with  a  double  bass  part  for 
the  violone,  which  had  a  noble  effect ;  and  Mr.  Inglesant  being 
pressed  to  obHge  the  company,  played  a  descant  upon  a  ground 
bass  in  the  Italian  manner.  I  should  fail  were  I  to  attempt  to 
describe  to  you  what  I  felt  during  the  performance  of  this  piece. 
It  seemed  to  me  as  though  thoughts,  which  I  had  long  sought 
and  seemed  ever  and  anon  on  the  point  of  realizing,  were  at  last 
given  me,  as  I  listened  to  chords  of  plaintive  sweetness  broken 
now  and  again  by  cruel  and  bitter  discords — a  theme  into  which 
were  wrought  street  and  tavern  music  and  people's  songs,  which 
lively  airs  and  catches,  upon  the  mere  pressure  of  the  string, 


440  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [cHAP.  XXXIX 

trembled  into  pathetic  and  melancholy  cadences.  In  these 
dying  falls  and  closes  all  the  several  parts  were  gathered  up 
and  brought  together,  yet  so  that  what  before  was  joy  was  now 
translated  into  sorrow,  and  the  sorrowful  transfigured  to  peace, 
as  indeed  the  many  shifting  scenes  of  life  vary  upon  the  stage 
of  men's  affairs. 

The  concert  being  over,  Mr.  Dean  informed  us  that  it  was 
his  intention  to  attend  the  afternoon  service  in  the  Cathedral, 
and  Mr.  Inglesant  accompanying  him,  the  physicians  departed 
to  visit  their  patients,  and  my  host  and  some  of  the  clergy  and 
myself  went  to  the  Cathedral  also,  entering  rather  late. 

After  the  service,  in  which  was  sung  an  anthem  by  Dr. 
Nathaniel  Giles,  Mr.  Dean  retired  to  the  vestry,  and  Mr. 
Inglesant  coming  down  the  Church,  I  found  myself  close  to  him 
at  the  west  door.  We  stopped  opposite  to  the  monument  of 
Bishop  Gauden,  who  is  depicted  in  his  effigy  holding  a  book, 
presumably  the  "  Icon  Basilike,'^  in  his  hand.  I  inquired  of 
Mr.  Inglesant  what  his  opinions  were  concerning  the  authorship 
of  that  work,  and  finding  that  he  was  disposed  to  converse,  we 
went  down  to  the  river  side,  the  evening  being  remarkably  fine, 
and  crossing  by  the  ferry,  walked  for  some  time  in  the  chapter 
meadows  upon  the  farther  bank.  The  evening  sun  was  setting 
towards  the  range  of  the  Malvern  Hills,  and  the  towers  and 
spires  of  the  city  were  shining  in  its  glow,  and  were  reflected 
in  the  water  at  our  feet. 

I  said  to  Mr.  Inglesant  that  I  was  greatly  interested  in  the 
events  of  the  last  age,  in  which  he  had  been  so  trusted  and 
prominent  an  actor,  and  that  I  hoped  to  learn  from  him  many 
interesting  particulars,  but  he  informed  me  that  he  knew  but 
little  except  what  the  world  was  already  possessed  of.  He 
said  that  he  very  deeply  regretted  that,  dming  the  last  two 
years  of  the  life  of  the  late  King,  he  himself  was  a  close 
prisoner  in  the  Tower;  and  was  therefore  prevented  from 
assisting  in  any  way,  or  being  useful  to  His  Majesty.  He  said 
that  there  was  something  pecuHarly  affecting  in  the  position  of 
the  King  in  those  days,  as  he  was  isolated  from  his  friends, 
and  entirely  dependent  upon  three  or  four  faithful  and  sub- 
ordinate servants.  He  said  that,  since  his  return  to  England, 
he  had  made  it  his  business  to  seek  out  several  of  these,  and 
had  received  mich  interesting  information  from  them,  which, 
as  he  hoped  it  would  soon  he  made  public,  he  was  not  at 


OHAP.  XXXIX.]  A  ROMANCE.  441 

present  at  liberty  to  communicate.  Mr,  Inglesant,  however, 
told  me  one  incident  relating  to  the  last  days  of  the  King  of  so 
affecting  a  character,  that,  as  it  is  too  long  to  be  repeated  here, 
I  shall  hope  to  inform  you  of  when  we  meet  together.  He 
said,  moreover,  that  the  fatal  mistake  the  King  made  was  con- 
senting to  the  death  of  Lord  Stratford ;  that  on  many  occasions 
he  had  yielded  when  he  should  have  been  firm ;  but  that  most 
of  his  misfortunes,  such  as  reverses  and  indecisions  in  the  field, 
were  cau<ed  by  circumstances  entirely  beyond  his  controL 
There  is  nothing  new  in  these  opinions,  but  I  give  them  just 
as  Mr.  Inglesant  stated  them,  lest  you  should  think  I  had 
not  taken  advantage  of  the  opportunity  presented  to  me.  It 
appeared  to  me  that  he  was  not  very  willing  to  discourse  upon 
these  bygone  matters  of  State  intrigue. 

Seeing  this  I  changed  the  topic,  and  said  that  as  Mr. 
Inglesant  had  had  much  experience  in  the  working  of  the 
Romish  system,  I  should  be  glad  to  know  his  opinion  of  it, 
and  whether  he  preferred  it  to  that  of  the  English  Church. 
Here  I  found  I  was  on  different  ground.  I  saw  at  once  beneath 
the  veil  of  polite  manner,  which  was  this  man's  second  nature, 
that  his  whole  life  and  being  was  in  this  question. 

"  This  is  the  supreme  quarrel  of  all,"  he  said.  "  This  is 
not  a  dispute  between  sects  and  kingdoms ;  it  is  a  conflict  within 
a  man's  own  nature — nay,  between  the  noblest  parts  of  man's 
nature  arrayed  against  each  other.  On  the  one  side  obedience 
and  faith,  on  the  other,  freedom  and  the  reason.  What  can 
come  of  suck  a  conflict  as  this  but  throes  and  agony  1  I  was 
not  brought  up  by  the  Papists  in  England,  nor,  indeed,  did  I 
receive  my  book  learning  from  tli'em.  I  was  trained  for  a 
special  purpose  by  one  of  the  Jesuits,  but  the  course  he  took 
with  me  was  different  from  that  which  he  would  have  taken 
with  other  pupils  whom  he  did  not  design  for  such  work.  I 
derived  my  training  from  various  sources,  and  especially,  instead 
of  Aristotle,  and  the  schoolmen,  I  was  fed  upon  Plato.  The 
difference  is  immense.  I  was  trained  to  obedience  and  devo- 
tion ;  but  the  reason  in  my  mind  for  this  conduct  was  that 
obedience  and  devotion,  and  gratitude  were  ideal  virtues,  not 
that  they  benefited  the  order  to  which  I  belonged,  nor  the 
world  in  which  I  lived.  This  I  take  to  be  the  difference 
between  the  Papists  and  myself.  The  Jesuits  do  not  like 
Plato,  as  lately  they  do  not  like  Lord  Bacou.     Aristotle,  af 


442  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap,  xxxnt 

interpreted  by  the  schoolmen,  is  more  to  their  mind.     According 
to  their  reading  of  Aristotle,  all  his  Ethics  are  subordinated  to 
an  end,  and  in  such  a  system  they  see  a  weapon  which  they 
can  turn  to  their  own  purpose  of  maintaining  dogma,  no  matter 
at  what  sacrifice  of  tlie  iiidiYidijal  conscience  or  reason.     Thia 
is  what  the  Church  of  Rome  has  ever  done.     She  has  traded 
upon  the  highest  instincts  of  humanity,  upon  its  faith  and  love, 
its  passionate  remorse,  its  self-abegnation  and  denial,  its  imagi- 
nation and  yearning  after  the  unseen.     It  has  based  its  system 
upon  the  profoundest  truths,  and  upon  this  platform  it  has 
raised  a  power  which  has,  whether  foreseen  by  its  authors  or 
not,  played  the  part  of  human  tyranny,  greed,  and  cruelty.     To 
support  this  system  it  has  habitually  set  itself  to  suppress 
knowledge  and  freedom  of  thought,  before  thought  had  taught 
itself  to  grapple  with  religious  subjects,  because  it  foresaw  that 
this  would  follow.     It  has,  therefore,  for  the  sake  of  preserving 
intact  its  dogma,  risked  the  growth  and  welfare  of  humanity, 
and  has,  in  the  eyes  of  all  except  those  who  value  this  dogma 
above  all  other  things,   constituted  itself  the  enemy   of  the 
human  race.     I  have  perhaps  occupied  a  position  which  enables 
me  to  judge  somewhat  advantageously  between  the  Churclies, 
and  my  earnest  advice  is  this.     You  will, do  wrong — mankind 
will  do  wrong — if  it  allows  to  drop  out  of  existence,  merely 
because  the  position  on  which  it  stands  seems  to  be  illogical, 
an  agency  by  which  the  devotional  instincts  of  human  nature 
are  enabled  to  exist   side  by   side   with   the   rational.     The 
English  Church,  as  established  by  the  law  of  England,  offers 
the  supernatural  to  all  who  choose  to  come.     It  is  hke  the 
Divbie  Being  Himself,  whose  sun  shines  alike  on  the  evil  and 
on  the   good.     Upon   the   altars    of  the   Church    the   divine 
presence  hovers  as  siu-ely,  to  those  who  believe  it,  as  it  does 
upon  the  splendid  altars  of  Rome.     Thanks  to  circumstances 
which  the  founders  of  our  Church  did  not  contemplate,  the 
way  is  open ;  it  is  barred  by  no  confession,  no  human  priest. 
Shall  we  throw  this  aside  1     It  has  been  won  for  us  by  the 
death  and  tortiu:e  of  men  like  ourselves  in  bodily  frame,  infi- 
nitely superior  to  some  of  us  in  self-denial  and  endurance. 
God  knows — those  who  know  my  life  know  too  well — that  I 
am   not  worthy  to  be  named  with  such  men;  nevertheless, 
though  we  cannot  endure  as  they  did — at  least  do  not  let  us 
needlessly  throw  away  what  they  have  won.     It  is  not  even  a 


CHAP.  XXXIX.]  A  ROMANCK  443 

question  of  religious  freedom  only ;  it  is  a  quostion  of  learning 
and  culture  in  every  form.  I  am  not  blind  to  the  peculiai 
dangers  that  beset  the  English  Chiu-ch.  I  fear  that  its  position, 
standing,  as  it  does,  a  mean  between  two  extrem  3s,  will  engender 
indifference  and  sloth;  and  that  its  freedom  will  prevent  its 
preserving  a  discipline  and  organizing  power,  without  which 
any  community  will  suffer  grievous  damage;  nevertheless,  as 
a  Chiu-ch  it  is  unique :  if  suffered  to  drop  out  of  existence, 
nothing  like  it  can  ever  take  its  place." 

"  The  Church  of  England,"  I  said,  seeing  that  Mr.  Inglesant 
paused,  "  is  no  doubt  a  compromise,  and  is  powerless  to  exert 
its  discipline,  as  the  events  of  the  late  troubles  have  shown. 
It  speaks  with  bated  assurance,  while  the  Church  of  Rome 
never  falters  in  its  utterance,  and  I  confess  seems  to  me  to  have 
a  logical  position.  If  there  be  absolute  truth  revealed,  there 
must  be  an  inspired  exponent  of  it,  else  from  age  to  age  it 
could  not  get  itself  revealed  to  mankind." 

"This  is  the  Papist  argument," said  Mr.  Inglesant;  "there 
is  only  one  answer  to  it — Absolute  truth  is  not  revealed.  There 
were  certain  dangers  which  Christianity  could  not,  as  it  would 
seem,  escape.  As  it  brought  down  the  sublimest  teaching  of 
Platoni^m  to  the  humblest  understanding,  so  it  was  compelled, 
by  this  very  action,  to  reduce  spiritual  and  abstract  truth  to 
hard  and  inadequate  dogma.  As  it  inculcated  a  sublime  indif- 
ference to  the  things  of  this  life,  and  a  steadfast  gaze  upon  the 
future,  so,  by  this  very  means,  it  encouraged  the  growth  of  a 
wild  unreasoning  superstition.  It  is  easy  to  draw  pictures  of 
martyrs  suffering  the  tortiue  unmoved  in  the  face  of  a  glorious 
hereafter ;  but  we  must  acknowledge,  unless  we  choose  to  call 
these  men  absolute  fiends,  that  it  was  these  selfsame  ideas  of 
the  futiu-e,  and  its  relation  to  this  life,  that  actuated  their 
tormentors.  If  these  things  are  true, — if  the  future  of  mankind 
is  parcelled  out  between  happiness  and  eternal  torture, — then, 
to  ensure  the  safety  ot  mankind  at  large,  the  death  and  tonnent 
for  a  few  moments  of  comparatively  few  need  excite  but  little 
regret.  From  the  instant  that  the  founder  of  Christianity  left 
the  earth,  perhaps  even  before,  this  ghastly  spectre  of  supersti- 
tion ranged  itself  side  by  side  with  the  advancing  faith.  It  is 
confined  to  no  Church  or  sect ;  it  exists  in  all  Faith  in  the 
noble,  the  unseen,  the  unselfish,  by  its  very  nature  encom-agea 
this  fatal  growth ;  and  it  is  nom-ished  even  by  those  w  ho  have 


444  JOHN  INGLESANT ;  [chap.  XXXIX* 

guflBcient  strength  to  live  above  it;  because,  forsooth,  its 
removal  may  be  dangerous  to  the  well-being  of  society  at  large, 
as  though  anything  could  be  more  fatal  than  falsehood  against 
the  Divine  Tnith." 

"  But  if  absolute  truth  is  not  revealed,"  I  said,  "  how  can 
we  kno^y  the  truth  at  all  V 

"  We  cannot  say  how  we  know  it,"  replied  Mr.  Inglesant, 
"but  this  very  ignorance  proves  that  we  can  know.  We  are 
the  creatures  of  this  ignorance  against  which  we  rebel.  From 
the  earliest  dawn  of  existence  we  have  known  nothing.  How 
then  could  we  question  for  a  moment  1  What  thought  should 
we  have  other  than  this  ignorance  which  we  had  imbibed  from 
our  growth,  but  for  the  existence  of  some  divine  principle,  '  Fons 
veri  lucidiis,'  within  us?  The  Founder  of  Christianity  said, 
*the  kingdom  of  God  is  within  you/  We  may  not  only  know 
the  truth,  but  we  may  live  even  in  this  life  in  the  very  house- 
hold and  court  of  God.  We  are  the  creatures  of  birth,  of 
ancestry,  of  circumstance ;  we  are  surrounded  by  law,  physical 
and  psychical,  and  the  physical  very  often  dominates  and  rules 
the  soul.  As  the  chemist,  the  navigator,  the  naturalist,  attain 
their  ends  by  means  of  law,  which  is  beyond  their  power  to 
alter,  which  they  cannot  change,  but  with  which  they  can  work 
in  harmony,  and  by  so  doing  produce  definite  results,  so  may 
we.  We  find  ourselves  immersed  in  physical  and  psychical 
laws,  in  accordance  with  which  we  act,  or  from  which  we 
diverge.  Whether  we  are  free  to  act  or  not,  we  can  at  lease 
fancy  that  we  resolve.  Let  us  cheat  ourselves,  if  it  be  a  cheat, 
with  this  fancy,  for  we  shall  find  that  by  so  doing  we  actually 
attain  the  end  we  seek.  Virtue,  truth,  love,  are  not  mere 
names;  they  stand  for  actual  qualities  which  are  well  known 
and  recognized  among  men.  These  qualities  are  the  elements 
of  an  ideal  life,  of  that  absolute  and  perfect  life  of  which  our 
highest  culture  can  catch  but  a  glimpse.  As  Mr.  Hobbes  has 
traced  the  individual  man  up  to  the  perfect  state,  or  Civitas, 
let  us  work  still  lower,  and  trace  the  individual  man  from  small 
origins  to  the  position  he  at  present  fills.  We  shall  find  that 
he  has  attained  any  position  of  vantage  he  may  occupy  by 
following  the  laws  which  our  instinct  and  conscience  tell  us  are 
Divine.  Terror  and  superstition  are  the  invariable  enemies  of 
culture  and  progress.  They  are  used  as  rods  and  bogies  to 
frighten  the  ignorant  and  the  base,  but  they  depress  all  man- 


©HAP.  XXXIX.]  A  ROMANCK.  440 

kind  to  the  same  level  of  abject  slavery.  The  ways  are  dark 
and  foul,  and  the  gray  years  bring  a  mysterious  fiituie  which 
we  cannot  see.  We  are  like  children,  or  men  in  a  tennis  court, 
and  before  our  conquest  is  half  won  the  dim  twiliglit  comes  and 
stops  the  game ;  nevertheless,  let  us  keep  our  places,  and  above 
all  tilings  hold  fast  by  the  law  of  life  we  feel  within.  This 
was  the  method  which  Christ  followed,  and  He  won  the  world 
by  placing  Himself  in  harmony  with  that  law  of  gradual  develop- 
ment which  the  Divine  Wisdom  has  planned.  Let  us  follow  in 
His  steps  and  we  shall  attain  to  the  ideal  life;  and,  witliout 
waiting  for  our  'mortal  passage,'  tread  the  free  and  spacious 
streets  of  that  Jerusalem  which  is  above." 

He  spoke  more  to  himself  than  to  me.  The  sun,  which 
was  just  setting  behind'  the  distant  hills,  shone  with  dazzling 
splendour  for  a  moment  upon  the  towers  and  spires  of  the  city 
across  the  placid  water.  Behind  this  fair  vision  were  dark  rain 
clouds,  before  which  gloomy  background  it  stood  in  fairy 
radiance  and  light.  For  a  moment  it  seemed  a  glorious  city, 
bathed  in  life  and  hope,  full  of  happy  people  who  thronged  its 
streets  and  bridge,  and  the  margin  of  its  gentle  stream.  But  it 
was  "  breve  gaudium."  Then  the  sunset  faded,  and  the  ethereal 
vision  vanished,  and  the  landscape  lay  dark  and  chilL 

"  The  sun  is  set,"  Mr.  Inglesant  said  cheerfully,  "  but  it 
will  rise  again.     Let  us  go  home." 

I  have  writ  much  more  largely  in  this  letter  than  I  intended, 
but  I  have  been  led  onward  by  the  interest  which  I  deny  not  I 
feel  in  this  man.     When  we  meet  I  will  tell  you  more. 

Your  ever  true  friend, 

Valentine  Lk& 


TBI  ENIK 


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